


Out of the Ashes

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, mystrade, virgin!Mycroft - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 31,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite having been in phone and text contact for years, Mycroft only meets Lestrade face-to-face for the first time at Sherlock's funeral.  An initial request for coffee blossoms into something more, until Mycroft has to admit something he'd much rather not acknowledge: he and Gregory Lestrade, together, are inevitable.  The only problem is, what will Greg do when he finds Mycroft lied about Sherlock's death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft actually met Gregory Lestrade face-to-face for the first time at Sherlock’s funeral. It was strange, to say the least - they’d been in text (and occasional phone) contact for nearly fourteen years, but it never went beyond that. Mycroft was pleased to see that the Detective Inspector looked even better in person than he did on the Yard’s video footage.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Lestrade managed a wavery smile. “No need to introduce yourself, Mr. Holmes - I’d recognize that voice anywhere. Terrible business, what?”

Mycroft inclined his head. “Sherlock was . . . always dramatic.” _Still is, the prat._ “I think he’d have been pleased to see his funeral getting so much media attention.”

“Bloody right.” Lestrade snorted. “He was-” He blinked several times and took a shaky breath. “He was a good man, though, in the end. And I’ll never believe those stupid rumors about him being a fraud. I _saw_ what he could do. Don’t suppose you can do something about those?”

“I’m working on it.” Mycroft could read the telltale strain around Lestrade’s occipitofrontalis muscle, drawing his forehead into more wrinkles than he usually possessed, and the tension in his jawline. Guilt, then, hidden among the grief, but trying to put on a good front. He knew his own face was blank, as always, but he allowed a tiny bit of his very real concern for Sherlock to show through. Lestrade seemed to find comfort in the shared emotion.

“Your parents here?” Lestrade asked. “He never talked about them, but I assumed . . .”

“Unfortunately, no. They were both unable to make it.” _Unwilling to put on the show required of them._

“God, I’m sorry. That’s . . . I’m so sorry, Mycroft. I had no idea things were that distant.”

Mycroft didn’t miss Lestrade’s (Gregory’s?) use of his name. It sounded . . . good. He was “Mr. Holmes” to bloody near everybody, and he found himself rather hoping that Lestrade would become one of the few to be excluded from that number.

But when would that happen, now that they didn’t have Sherlock there between them? Sherlock had always been the reason for contact, late-night pleas to keep him out of trouble or warnings when he was in danger of slipping back into his old habits. And twice, frantic phone calls when Mycroft became aware that Sherlock was in imminent danger of overdosing. Both times, Lestrade had stepped up admirably, browbeating some sense into the detective and bullying him into giving up the cocaine, at least temporarily. John had rather taken over the watchdog role of late, but Lestrade seemed perfectly willing to stand at the sidelines, ready to intervene if needed.

“It occurs to me I never did thank you properly,” Mycroft said, deftly sidestepping the subject of his parents’ absence. “For your actions all those years ago. Sherlock was out of control. Hated me, actually. He was determined to not listen to a word I had to say, whether or not I was right.” He had to work to swallow around the lump in his throat. “You saved him, and I owe you everything for that. At the very least, my sincere thanks.”

Lestrade looked down, a faint wash of color tinging his cheeks. _Interesting._ “It was the least I could do,” he said quietly. “Your brother was bloody brilliant, and it was all such a _waste_ \- I just couldn’t - just couldn’t-” He clenched his fist over his mouth, stifling what would have probably been an audible sob, then looked Mycroft square in the face. “I’m honored to have known him, and that’s a fact. Even with - all this - he’s made me a better man. Older and a bit grayer, maybe, but better.”

Mycroft suppressed his first thought - that Lestrade looked perfectly delicious, gray hair or no - as completely inappropriate for a funeral. Which was why he was caught off-guard when Lestrade’s next sentence was, “Come have a drink with me.”

He blinked. “Pardon?”

Lestrade smiled a bit. “I know, you probably don’t drink, weight of Britain on your shoulders and all. Coffee, then. I just - nobody knew Sherlock better than you, other than maybe John, and I don’t want to intrude on him right now. I think - I think it would be good to set some time aside to remember him together, no?”

“Let him be the center of attention one more time?” Mycroft murmured.

And Lestrade broke into a true grin. “Just so. Tomorrow? Or - hell, your schedule is more full than mine, I’m sure. They’re calling it ‘administrative leave’ while they review all of Sherlock’s cases, but I know when I’m being shown the door. I can duck out for a cuppa whenever you’re free.”

Mycroft inclined his head. “Tomorrow morning would be . . . lovely. Ten?”

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah. Ten. Good.” His attention drifted to the other mourners, specifically to the small knot surrounding John and Mrs. Hudson. “I should - I should say something to John, at least. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Mycroft was left standing alone at his brother’s funeral with an outwardly-inscrutable expression on his face, wondering if he had just made a terrible mistake. Going out with Gregory Lestrade - even just coffee - would be . . .

_Heavenly._

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft’s car pulled up outside the police station precisely at ten o’clock. Lestrade was waiting for him on the sidewalk with a bemused expression on his face.

“John warned me you’d do this.”

Mycroft frowned. “What, pick you up? We didn’t actually set a location.”

“True - I thought we could walk.”

Mycroft blinked. He was rarely surprised, by anyone, but the detective inspector consistently threw off his expectations. “You have a place in mind?” he asked.

Lestrade grinned. “I do. Come on!”

So Mycroft climbed out, sent the driver on back to the office to await further orders, and quickly found himself ambling along the sidewalk next to Lestrade. “I would have assumed you’d want to avoid the cafes near the Yard,” he said to break the silence. “Danger of running into someone you know.”

“Not where we’re going,” Lestrade replied, and winked. Actually _winked_. “This place reminds me of you every time I go.”

Mycroft felt . . . absurdly flattered. “And how often is that?”

“Almost daily, now that I’m under review and completely unwanted at my own office. Here we are.”

 _Here_ turned out to be a hole-in-the-wall antique bookshop. Mycroft was vaguely familiar with the name, but had never been inside.

“Bookshop that dabbles in coffee rather than the other way around,” Lestrade explained as they made their way to the tiny seating area in the back. “Nothing pretentious here - just normal coffee and good British tea - but nearly everyone at the Yard sticks with the bigger chain places closer by. I mostly come because I love the smell.”

Mycroft had to concede that it did smell lovely - old books mixed with coffee beans and, underneath that, a faint hint of black tea. He could see why Lestrade might associate the combination with the image Mycroft carefully maintained - educated, proper, unrelentingly British, and (when he was being honest with himself) a touch stuffy. It fit. They both ordered their coffee black, one sugar, and settled into their faded wooden chairs.

“So have you talked to John much?” Lestrade asked without preamble.

 _Not likely_. “He’s rather avoiding me at the moment,” Mycroft admitted. “I’m giving him some space.”

Lestrade nodded. “I know he and Sherlock weren’t _together_ together, but they might as well have been. It’s gotta be like losing a spouse.”

“They were,” Mycroft replied. And then nearly choked on his coffee at the shocked look on Lestrade’s face. “I don’t think either would have considered it dating,” he amended. “But I think one could term them ‘ _together_ together’ in every other sense of the phrase.”

“Christ.” Lestrade gulped a too-large swig of his own coffee and then opened his mouth comically wide and winced. “Burned my tongue, sorry. But - really? You have surveillance in their flat or something?”

The image of Sherlock _in flagrante delicto_ with his loyal army doctor was one Mycroft could go his entire lifetime without seeing, thankyouverymuch. “Unnecessary.”

“So, what - fuck buddies?”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to wince. “I’d really rather not contemplate that aspect of my little brother’s life more than absolutely necessary.”

“Right, sorry.” Lestrade sobered and toyed with the handle of his coffee mug. “Not really appropriate, under the circumstances. It’s just - it’s hard to think of him as gone, you know? Sherlock was always so . . . larger than life.”

Mycroft snorted. “You should have seen him as a child.”

“What was he like? A handful, I’ll imagine.”

“You wouldn’t believe how many nannies we went through.”

“Rather like how he went through flatmates before meeting John?”

“Just so.” Mycroft took a much more sedate sip of his coffee. Which was surprisingly decent, considering the store obviously only served coffee as a pretense to keep customers there long enough to buy more books. “He ran the first one off when he was three years old. Sherlock went from barely speaking at all - just _looking_ at you with those bright blue eyes like he was trying to read your soul - to suddenly talking non-stop about anything and everything. Including repeating some things our nanny had said to herself in private, assuming he wasn’t old enough to listen.”

“What sorts of things?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Nobody ever told me, and I didn’t bother to pry, but I suspect they had to do with her taste in men. Or the variety thereof. She amassed quite a collection of ex-lovers, even in just three years. Nothing illegal, of course, but not something you want your three-year-old charge repeating to your employers.”

“So he’s literally been like this his whole life.”

Mycroft inclined his head.

“Bet it always made it hell for you to bring home girlfriends.”

“It would have been futile to try.” _In part because I never had time for someone like that, and in part because I was much more interested in boys._ But Mycroft had been in Her Majesty’s service for more than enough time for silence on the topic of his preferences to be his habit, so he gave no indication Lestrade’s assumption was wrong.

And Lestrade looked like he never even considered there was an alternative. _Disappointing._ Not that Mycroft would have ever actually propositioned him, despite how fit he was, but Lestrade’s assumption proved he was almost certainly straight.

“How old were you at the time?” Lestrade asked.

“Ten, and just that year going off to school a term at a time. Sherlock really only saw me when I was home on breaks.”

“These nannies were yours, too?”

“Nominally.” Mycroft cocked his head and turned the discussion toward Lestrade. “What were you like as a child?”

“A hellion.” Lestrade chuckled a bit into his mug. “Nah, actually, I was actually pretty boring. My older brother was the bigger troublemaker, between the two of us. Our parents both worked a lot, so it was mostly just him and me.”

Mycroft frowned. “I didn’t know you had a brother.” It hadn’t come up on any of the preliminary reports he had run on Lestrade, back when he first took Sherlock under his wing. Which was exceedingly odd - there should have been _something_ -

Some emotion passed over Lestrade’s face, too quickly for Mycroft to parse. “Lost him when I was fourteen,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” The words were automatic, but the sentiment was true.

“Suicide. Charlie ran with a bad crowd, more often than not, and he got mixed up with the dickhead who lived in the flat below ours. Sold pot and acid. There was something of a turf war, I gather, and of course Charlie couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He hanged himself in the loo two weeks after his seventeenth birthday.”

Mycroft ducked his head. “That’s . . . not something any child should have to go through. From his perspective and from yours.”

Lestrade took another gulp of his coffee and shrugged with forced nonchalance. “Yeah, tell me about it. Anyway, that’s part of why I wanted to talk to you. Just wanted to - hell, I don’t know. Wanted to let you know I’m open to listen, if you want me to. I’ve been there.” He snorted. “I know enough about what you do to know that you’re bloody close-mouthed when it comes to your job, but I thought your personal life might be different.”

Mycroft frowned and worded his response very carefully. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer. The nature of my work is such that I don’t often share details of my life with anyone, though - even details which might sound innocent enough on the surface.” _Hell, that’s how I gave Moriarty the ammunition to discredit Sherlock._ The thought still made him feel vaguely ill.

Lestrade’s expression shuttered. “I suppose I didn’t expect any different.” He picked up his now-empty mug and started to stand. “The offer’s still there, anyway-”

“Wait.” Mycroft dared a hand on Lestrade’s arm, the contact feeling much more intimate than it ought. “I don’t - I’ve never had someone to talk to. Not like that.”

“Can’t risk pillow talk bringing down Her Majesty’s government?” Lestrade asked with a wry smile.

“Nothing so grand - I’m merely a low-level government official,” Mycroft protested automatically.

“Bullshit.” Lestrade tapped the side of his nose. “Your access badge let Sherlock walk into fucking Baskerville, unannounced. Pull the other one; it’s got bells on.”

Mycroft huffed, but he didn’t press the issue. “What I meant to say was, I’ve never been in a position where I both had something to say and had someone trustworthy to say it _to_.”

“Forget it,” Lestrade replied. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I’m saying yes,” Mycroft interrupted.

Lestrade froze in the act of pushing in his chair.

“Thank you.” Mycroft couldn’t believe he was doing this - putting himself in regular contact with Gregory Lestrade was just asking for trouble, where Sherlock’s secret was concerned - but the offer was honestly given and there was no way in hell he could turn down the chance to spend more time with this dishy man. Even if it wasn’t going to amount to anything because he didn’t dare out himself and Lestrade was straight. Just _dreaming_ about the possibility of something more was better than his sex life had been allowed for some time.

Lestrade cleared his throat, then recommenced tidying his chair and bussing his mug to the dish basket near the trash can. “When?” he finally asked.

Mycroft mentally flipped through his upcoming calendar. “Friday? What time do you get off work, usually?”

“Five, barring a case.”

Which Mycroft already knew, had known for fourteen years, but unlike Sherlock he recognized the value of letting people share details about their lives of their own volition. He pursed his lips and nodded. “Meet you at six, then? Doing dinner sounds awfully formal, but in this case it seems expedient since we’ll both need to eat anyway. I’ll text you a restaurant Friday afternoon.”

“Sounds good.” Lestrade smiled, a genuine smile, and nodded toward the front door. “I’d better get back to the Yard. Not that anyone will care that I’ve been gone, but I do like to at least pretend I’ve been hard at work.”

“Until Friday, then,” Mycroft said, adding a polite nod farewell.

He immediately spent every free moment of the next few days trying to decide which restaurant, in all of London, would work best for a not-date with Gregory Lestrade.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade slid into his seat with an appreciative look around the dining room. “Must say, this is not at all what I expected,” he announced.

Mycroft had eventually settled on an upscale Chinese venue, inauthentic enough to actually provide a menu in English but a significant step up from the takeaway Lestrade had practically lived on since his divorce. “I hope I haven’t disappointed you.”

“No, not that.” Lestrade shrugged. “I assumed you’d pick somewhere with white tablecloths and an unpronounceable wine menu, that’s all.”

“You assume I can’t eat Chinese?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “You’re a posh bloke with a public school accent - I rather thought this would be slumming it for you.” He looked down abruptly and reddened a bit. “Sorry, didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“I don’t know anyone’s ever rolled their eyes at me before, wot wiv the posh bloke thing,” Mycroft responded, deliberately shifting his vowels forward and emphasizing the glottal stops in the coarse Cockney accent. The effort was worth it for the stunned look on Lestrade’s face.

“Do that again.”

“Grew up with Sherlock, remember,” Mycroft said, pulling the “r”s forward in a West Country burr. “He’s the natural mimic, but we used to be able to guess each other’s accents down to the county, sometimes.”

“Christ, how many of those can you do?”

“Most of them,” Mycroft replied in his own voice once again. “It’s come in handy, on occasion.”

“You haven’t always done desk work,” Lestrade guessed.

Mycroft neither confirmed nor denied it.

“Yeah, didn’t think you’d admit it, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft winced. “Call me Mycroft, please. I’m not at work. And you already do anyway, in your head.” _Plus I rather liked you being too familiar with me before._

Lestrade grinned. “Mycroft, then. It’s a bit creepy when you do things like that, you know. Bloody telepathic. Sherlock was just as bad.”

“Hardly telepathy, just keen observational skills.”

“Right.”

It was his chance to press his advantage, and Mycroft had never been the type to back down. “May I call you Gregory?”

“You’d be the only one.”

 _Shit._ “My apologies, then, Detective Inspector. I didn’t mean to presume on-”

Lestrade shook his head. “No,” he interrupted. “I like it. It fits you. By all means, call me Gregory.”

“Ah.”

They sat in semi-awkward silence for a few minutes, looking over the menu (Lestrade’s in English, Mycroft’s in Chinese). Lestrade waited for the server to bring their drinks and leave with their orders before choosing a new topic.

“So. Moriarty.”

 _Ah._ Not a surprising choice, given that Sherlock was the only thing the two of them had ever really shared. “He’s really and truly dead, under questionable circumstances, but his network is proving . . . difficult . . . to penetrate with any degree of success.”

“But you’re trying?”

“Of course.” Mycroft sipped his tea, betraying nothing of the exhaustive struggle Sherlock was undergoing to break into said network. “I have the utmost confidence in Her Majesty’s government’s ability to handle these sorts of operations.”

Lestrade eyed him over the rim of his own cup. “Which means you’re doing all the work.”

Mycroft shrugged.

“We’re in good hands then.”

Mycroft kept his gaze on his plate, but he studied Lestrade in his peripheral vision. Open, honest expression, slightly pinched look like he was being overworked (or underworked, rather, but stressed about the fate of his career just the same). As far as Mycroft could tell, he was actually, honestly happy to be having dinner together, talking about nothing in particular. And he meant it when he implied trusting Mycroft was being “in good hands.” It was . . .

“I can’t remember the last time I shared a meal with someone who actually wanted to be there,” Mycroft said softly. It was more than he would usually admit, and the honesty required to say it felt awkward on his tongue, but the fact needed to be expressed. “I’m finding this surprisingly comfortable.”

A hint of a smile appeared on Lestrade’s lips, quickly suppressed. “Why surprising?”

Mycroft twitched one shoulder upward, a half-shrug intended to convey more nonchalance than he truly felt. “I don’t know - I’m not often surprised anymore.”

“I bet you’re not.” Lestrade cocked his head to the side, studying him across the table. “You’re an intriguing man, Mycroft Holmes,” he finally pronounced.

“I assure you, I’m really not-”

“Yes you are,” he interrupted. “You’re so tightly controlled, but I get the feeling you’re desperate for the chance to unwind sometime. And I’d love to be there when you do.”

Images of Lestrade - Gregory - naked and reclined in bed swam before Mycroft’s eyes. He immediately tried to push them away, but the longer Lestrade studied him, the more erotic the pictures got. Mycroft could feel the blush staining his cheeks, but he could no more will it away than he could fly.

“Interesting,” Lestrade murmured, and reached for his glass again.


	4. Chapter 4

Gregory ducked into the car and sank into the leather seat with an almost obscene moan. “Fucking terrible day,” he said without opening his eyes.

Mycroft had to concur, not that he could actually talk about it. The Pakistanis were being a bloody nuisance, and he was thoroughly sick of the international pissing contest. Pretty much the only thing that kept him from writing them off entirely and possibly starting World War Three was the thought of his regular weekly dinner with Gregory waiting for him at the end of it all. Six weeks in and they were still finding new things to talk about - and and he was still being surprised on a regular basis. Even the night’s choice of restaurant, this time around - it was Gregory’s turn to choose, but he was being stubbornly tight-lipped about it.

“You’ll need to tell the driver a destination eventually,” Mycroft commented.

Gregory snorted. “We’re celebrating tonight - which means you get to come slumming it with me. Oh great and mysterious driver, the Tube station nearest my flat will be perfect. I assume you already know which one that is.”

Clarkson’s eyes met Gregory’s in the mirror, but he obediently pulled away from the kerb and set off. Mycroft made a mental note to send the man an extra something as thanks - he had never specifically requested Clarkson learn anything about Gregory, but obviously he had taken the initiative to map out the most likely destinations. Not unexpected, for the caliber of employee Mycroft preferred to attract, but worth acknowledging all the same.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re celebrating?” Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

Gregory mirrored it. “Are you going to tell me you don’t already know?” The put-on expression faltered, and a grin broke through. “Just teasing you - of course you already know, but I suppose it would be rude for anyone but me to say my divorceiversary is a cause for celebration.”

Mycroft had known, or would have if he’d have bothered to recall, but Gregory was right - it would have been impolitic to mention it. “I’m rather sure that’s not a word,” he murmured instead.

“Should be. The one-year anniversary of my divorce deserves some sort of recognition. And I’m shocked you’re more worried about my grammar than about the fact that I’ve declared we’re going to be slumming it for dinner.”

“I place my culinary satisfaction in your hands.”

Gregory’s grin widened. “Damn right you do. I called ahead - we’re going to pick up Indian at my favorite little hole-in-the-wall, then take it back to my flat and wash it down with the very generous bottle of Scotch my team got me yesterday to commemorate the occasion. It’s a good one, apparently, so you’ve got no excuse to turn your nose up at it.”

“I . . .” Mycroft frowned. He didn’t drink often. Hardly ever, as a matter of fact, just a half-glass of something when diplomacy demanded it and inconspicuously virgin drinks the rest of the time. A well-bribed bartender was an invaluable asset - and if Mycroft’s drinks ended up decked out with all the expected frills but strangely absent of alcohol, well, it was probably better for world peace that way. He couldn’t risk an international incident cropping up at a time he was incapable of dealing with it.

“Hey,” Greg said quietly after more silence than Mycroft had intended. “I get it, and there’s no pressure. I do intend to get a bit tipsy tonight, though, and it’ll be a lot less pathetic if you’re there with me. I deserve it, between the day I’ve had and the fact that it’s a special occasion.”

Mycroft’s eyes only met Clarkson’s for a fraction of a second in the mirror, but it was enough. Clarkson didn’t think he would do it. Mycroft felt an - admittedly childish - impulse to agree just to be contrary. A drink with Gregory wasn’t that ridiculous in the grand scope of things, was it? Anthea was perfectly capable of holding the country together for a few hours, and a drink or two wouldn’t be all that incapacitating.

“I leave the details of the evening to you,” he finally said. And was rewarded by a flash of something promising in Gregory’s eyes.

***

“Hole-in-the-wall” turned out to be a rather generous description for the lilliputian Indian restaurant Gregory favored. Mycroft didn’t eat much Indian food, as a rule, but Gregory seemed to have ordered one of everything (going by the size of the takeaway bags) and between the two of them they managed to convey everything to the flat. Mycroft’s security detail stayed well back - Anthea would have had Gregory’s flat swept and the two of them followed the minute Gregory announced his plan for the evening, of course, but it was nice to just pretend they were walking, alone, enjoying a quiet night in with takeaway and the telly. Watching rugby, no doubt.

“It’s England versus South Africa tonight, right?” he asked.

Gregory stopped and goggled at him. “You follow rugby?”

Mycroft shrugged. “No, but you do, so I memorized the teams and the schedules. I thought it would make an adequate topic of conversation if we ever ran out of something more interesting to talk about.”

A long pause, then Gregory threw his head back and _laughed_. “Christ, Mycroft, never change. You’re utterly brilliant, you know that?” He shook his head. “You sounded just like Sherlock there for a minute, albeit with more social skills.”

“Not a comparison we ever got often.” Mycroft gave an exaggerated shudder. “Sherlock’s sense of propriety was never all that well-developed.”

Gregory shrugged, sobering. “Not a day goes by I don’t miss him, you know. I end up just sitting there at my desk, poring over paperwork, and I _know_ Sherlock could have walked in and solved the case in five minutes flat. It would be worth the condescension and the insults just to have his help sometimes. Hell, I _miss_ the condescension and the insults.” They reached his door, and he unlocked it deftly while balancing his half of the mountain of Indian food in his other hand. “Sorry, I did clean, but there’s really not much in here. Functional for a bachelor, I guess, but Annie got most of the good furniture in the divorce and I haven’t particularly made the effort to replace it.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” Mycroft followed him inside and made a point of not looking around. Not that he didn’t take it all in at a glance, of course - the faded wallpaper, the peeling linoleum tile in the kitchenette, the slight water stains on the ceiling near the window. Everything a bit shabby, but nothing unsanitary or dangerous. Practical, then - the cheapest option in a passably safe neighborhood a reasonable commute from the Yard. A good choice for a recently-divorced man with no one to impress. Mycroft set his bags down on the smallish kitchen table and set about trying to be helpful as Gregory dug out forks and plates.

The food was good. Mycroft ate more than he intended to, but it seemed that Gregory had ordered a bit of everything to share and somehow by the time they both finished, they ended up sharing the (slightly battered but surprisingly comfortable) sofa and Gregory was pouring two glasses of Scotch. The rugby match was on the telly in the background, sound muted and largely ignored. The scene was domestic in a way Mycroft couldn’t recall ever having actually experienced in person.

“So.” Gregory lifted his glass in a mock toast, then took a long sip. It was his fourth (Mycroft’s second), but only the slight flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “To my divorceiversary, I guess?”

“A regrettable issue, but I hope it leads to future happiness.”

“Diplomatic as always.” Gregory eyed Mycroft over the rim of his glass. “Do you ever unbutton?”

Mycroft glanced down at his suit, still in good shape despite his long day. “I wasn’t aware I needed to,” he admitted.

“Not like -” Gregory waved a casual hand at Mycroft’s torso. “I meant metaphorically. Unbutton, let your hair down, whatever. What do you do to relax?”

 _Not much_. Mycroft had to think for a moment to find examples. “I read,” he finally said. “I play the piano on occasion. I meditate. And I collect things.”

“Antique snuffboxes? Rare books?”

“Bells, actually.” He shrugged. “It’s . . . rather expected, in diplomatic circles. In much of the world, it’s a custom to bring a gift to your host, and that includes business and political hosts as well as personal. It’s polite to collect something, so other people know what to get you.”

“And you collect bells.”

“Not with any particular enthusiasm, but yes. Sometime if you’re ever at my house, I can show you the display room.”

Gregory chuckled and took another drink. “Christ. Just when I start to get used to you being all posh, you say things like that. You have a whole room for them?”

Mycroft abruptly felt embarrassed - it’s not like he was trying to show off, worked very hard to avoid it in fact, but sometimes his background left him more socially handicapped than he liked. Apparently having a room dedicated to displaying one’s bell collection wasn’t on, especially when one was sitting on his friend’s threadbare sofa, eating takeaway off chipped plates and drinking Scotch from a mismatched whiskey tumbler.

“Hey.” Gregory caught on to his distress immediately. “Sorry, that was rude of me. You’ve been more than willing to go along with my low-rent dinner suggestions; I shouldn’t mock you for having a few things on the other end of the spectrum.”

 _That doesn’t help._ “I am actually a real person, Gregory, much as Sherlock might have told you otherwise.”

Gregory grinned and leaned back against the cushions, the very picture of relaxation. “Yeah, it does peek through sometimes. Tell me something real about you.”

“What kind of something real?”

“Hmmm - first kiss. Details. Was it as awkward as mine was?”

That whole facet of Mycroft’s life had _awkward_ stamped all over it, but he gamely tried to distill some of his teenage fumblings into a semi-coherent story. “First girl I kissed was Sarah Edgewater - she was supposed to be minding Sherlock, but she was only two years older than I was and Sherlock was determined to be a complete berk for most of that summer. I was only home on weekends, but she and I snuck a few quick kisses and fumbles in when we got the chance. Sherlock realized almost at once, of course, but I bribed him to keep his mouth shut for almost a month.”

“How old were you?” Gregory asked.

Mycroft had to think a moment and do the math. “Fifteen. She was seventeen, and Sherlock was turning eight.”

“Yeah, okay.” Gregory leaned forward and braced his forearms on his knees. “I said first kiss, though, not first kiss _with a girl_. I did notice you made the distinction. What was your first ever kiss, then?”

Mycroft froze. It was unlike him, not to have his smooth diplomatic mask at the ready, but Gregory had once again surprised him.

“Me first, then?” Gregory asked. “Fine, I was fourteen, his name was Brad Samuelson, and he had the most amazing blue eyes. He was the one who actually got me through math class - I guess we studied enough during our study sessions for me to actually absorb something. Your turn.”

Mycroft blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_.” Gregory cocked his head to one side, studying him. “You are gay, right? I mean, it’s been a while for me, obviously, but my gaydar usually isn’t wrong. And you’re always so circumspect about that aspect of your life.”

“That’s because I’ve never really had much choice.” Mycroft immediately wished he had kept his mouth shut - maybe a glass and a half of Scotch was over his limit. “I mean-”

“I get it,” Gregory interrupted. “There’s a difference between legal and accepted, no? Hell, I’m not going to pretend that very issue didn’t play into me ending up with Anne and ‘rounding up’ to straight for a while. A very long, very boring while.” He snorted. “I’m not really one to offer judgement, though, am I?”

Mycroft dropped his chin to his chest, a silent acknowledgement. “Actual first kiss, then - Calvin Reddings, a neighbor boy who lived near the family estate. We were both fourteen. It was awful - not at all what I had hoped. Stilted and awkward and slimy all at the same time. I hope he’s gotten better at it sometime over the last thirty years.”

Gregory _hmmm_ ed in the back of his throat. “And you? Have you gotten better at it?”

“I . . . wouldn’t know?” Mycroft found his breath coming more shallowly the more Gregory leaned forward. “I’ve never tried to kiss myself.”

“May I?” Gregory was close, now, very definitely hovering in Mycroft’s personal space. His lips were slightly parted, inviting. “If you hate it, we can always blame it on the Scotch later.”

“You planned this,” Mycroft whispered.

Gregory just smirked in response. And closed the gap.

The first brush of his lips was cool, impersonal. The second started a wash of fire running from that single point of contact and flashing over Mycroft’s entire body. He moaned, some tiny inarticulate sound, and Gregory took that as permission to shift closer and deepen the kiss.

He was drowning. This had to be what drowning felt like - a slow, inexorable drag into the unknown. Mycroft vaguely remembered hearing that drowning was actually quite pleasant before you lost consciousness, your body starved for oxygen and flooding your brain with rush after rush of neurotransmitters in a last desperate bid for freedom. He felt that rush now, the frantic firing of overwhelmed synapses as the final vestiges of his propriety gave way under the gentle pressure of Gregory’s assault.

There was a hand at the nape of his neck, now, insistent and controlling, holding his head still so Gregory could shift the angle of their kiss and _oh_. Mycroft allowed Gregory to tease his lips apart, insinuate his tongue between them, wrangle a helpless groan in reply. Mycroft couldn’t remember ever having felt so completely out of his depth and yet so _right_. Gregory pressed closer, gently drawing out Mycroft’s shivers and sighs and tiny sounds of supplication until Mycroft felt like his entire body was strung out like a thin wire, tense and vibrating and in danger of snapping if Gregory were to ever stop. His own hands clutched the fabric of Gregory’s shirt in self-defense, desperate to anchor themselves against the relentless waves of _sensation_ breaking over him.

Gregory eventually gentled the kiss, drawing back just far enough for both of them to catch their breath. Mycroft was panting as if he had just run for miles, his composure shredded and his mind a perfect blank. The twin spots of color high on Gregory’s cheeks went a long way toward soothing any embarrassment he might have felt at being so easily affected, although they didn’t mitigate it completely.

“Bloody hell,” Gregory whispered, the words barely more than a puff of air against Mycroft’s lips. “That was . . .”

“. . . incredible,” Mycroft whispered back.

They stayed like that for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, Gregory’s fingers still sifting through the fine hair at the nape of Mycroft’s neck. Eventually Mycroft unclenched his hands, one deliberate finger at a time, and let go of Gregory’s shirt. Then the moment broke, and they both sat back to put more space between them.

“Was that okay?” Gregory asked quietly. “I mean, I didn’t _plan_ that, necessarily, but I did kind of _hope_ -”

“Hey.” Mycroft brushed one curled finger under Gregory’s chin, lifting it up so Gregory could look him in the face and see the honesty there. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

“Oh, I wasn’t,” Gregory replied with a bit of a smile. “I may be going to hell for plenty of other things, but I’ll be damned if that was one of them.”

The instinctive semantic response - that, by definition, Gregory _couldn’t_ be damned for something that wasn’t sending him to hell - faded as Gregory’s expression turned worried. For all he had been the confident aggressor, Gregory was still unsure of his reception. Mycroft couldn’t resist lifting one hand to cup his cheek. “Thank you,” he said softly. “I haven’t been kissed like that in years.” _Or ever_ , his always-helpful brain corrected. “I wouldn’t be averse to trying that again sometime.”

Gregory returned his tentative smile with a wistful one of his own. “You’re leaving now, is what you’re saying.”

“. . . Yes.” Mycroft glanced down at his half-full glass of Scotch. “Don’t misunderstand me; you’re an amazing man and this isn’t a prelude to me having some sort of crisis. I just . . .”

“Hey.” Gregory leaned forward to brush a perfunctory kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. “I get it - it’s kind of a lot take in at once, am I right?”

Mycroft nodded silently.

“Let me know what you decide, then.” Gregory swept their dirty plates off the coffee table and stood. “I hope I’m not being too forward when I say I’d love for this to be something more.” He walked the dishes to his kitchen, where there was the clink of the cheap imitation china as he dumped them in the sink, then he reappeared in the doorway with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Can I be blunt?”

“If you wish.”

“I haven’t been with a man in nearly twenty years, and Anne and I weren’t exactly tearing it up in the bedroom before the divorce was finalized either. I’m starved for it and I’d like nothing more than to drag you into my bed this very minute and see how rusty I really am at this.” He looked away and ran his fingers nervously through his short hair. “Not like you couldn’t read that on me anyway, I’m sure, but I wanted to get it out in the open. So yeah. Go home and think, or whatever. And if you decide you don’t want me, then that’s that and we can just get together to chat sometimes as mates and it’ll be fine, really. But I just wanted you to know I’d rather . . . yeah.”

This was a chance to confess - _my only experience with that is theoretical, I’ve been closeted my whole life, I’ve never gone past juvenile snogging and a few fumbled gropes_ \- but Mycroft kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t entirely sure why. Force of habit, maybe, or decades of trying to make just _imagining_ feel like enough. But if he were to do this, to make this just-mates arrangement into something more, it would mean admitting his near-complete naivete at everything sexual. And that wasn’t something he had the first idea how to do.

“Right.” Gregory swept up the Scotch and the two glasses, disappearing into the kitchen again and taking quite a bit longer than was absolutely necessary. By the time he came back out, Mycroft had texted Clarkson to bring the car around and was straightening his suit as best he could without a mirror.

“Next week, then?” Gregory asked, a touch of uncertainty in his voice.

 _Next week._ Mycroft could commit to at least that much. He nodded, a bit stiffly. “I’ll pick you up when you’re done with work. Call me if you’ve got a case and have to postpone.”

The corners of Gregory’s mouth twitched upward a minuscule amount. “Postpone, not cancel?”

“Not letting you cancel.” Mycroft darted forward before he could think better of it and pressed an awkward kiss to the corner of Gregory’s mouth. “I promise, next week will be a proper date.”


	5. Chapter 5

The following Friday at precisely five o’clock, Mycroft stood in the drizzle outside the Yard and waited for Gregory to finish up. The Detective Inspector must have been in a hurry to escape, too, because he appeared less than a minute later.

“I’m actually kind of disappointed to discover that’s an actual umbrella,” Gregory said by way of greeting. “I was kind of hoping it was really a laser gun or a hidden sword or something.”

“Laser gun?” Mycroft mulled that over for a moment. “Nothing so futuristic, I’m afraid. Although it does have a GPS transponder. I never lose it.”

Gregory laughed at that, then shifted into Mycroft’s personal space so the umbrella shielded both of them. It was too intimate for two “just friends” straight men, too revealing for any onlookers, but Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to step away. The promise from the previous week’s kiss crackled between them.

“Seems like a rather extreme measure for an ordinary umbrella, if you ask me,” Greg teased. “You must really love it.”

“The transponder is for me,” Mycroft admitted. “In case any . . . issues crop up. It also houses a panic button.”

Gregory blinked. “That’s . . . slightly terrifying, actually,” he said slowly. “That it would be necessary. Although I’m glad you’re cautious.”

Mycroft shrugged. “International politics involves large stakes.” He’d survived three attempts on his life so far, but there was no reason for Gregory to know that. None of them had been close calls. “Speaking of which, though, I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something terribly rude. Our destination is quite a ways out of London tonight, and it’s rather necessary for me to finish a few more hours of work so I can have more time with you tomorrow. You did say you had nothing planned this weekend, correct?”

Gregory froze and blinked at him. “You’re planning a weekend away with me?”

 _Should I have asked first?_ Mycroft had the distinct impression this was perhaps “not done” in secrecy, but it was safer this way, and he hated telegraphing his moves when he was away from home . . . “You asked last week what I do to - I believe your phrase was ‘unbutton.’ I wanted to show you. If you have the time?”

“Yeah - I mean, I’ve got no plans, like I told you before - but I didn’t exactly bring a change of clothes with me to work this morning. Wasn’t expecting more than an evening. Can we stop back at my place so I can throw a bag together?”

“No need - my assistant has taken care of it. You’ll find everything you need at the estate.”

Gregory’s mouth dropped open. “Estate. You mentioned that once before, but I thought you were kidding. You’re not secretly royalty or something, are you?”

 _Not by blood, anyway._ Mycroft had spent enough time with various members of the royal family to be secretly glad of that fact - his own familial issues were bad enough. “Not royalty. No title. Just a very old family.”

“Christ.” Gregory snorted, then sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah, okay, why not? You said this time would be a real date, and I guess a weekend getaway counts.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft gestured toward the sleek black limousine idling at the curb. “Unfortunately, like I said, I must finish up a few things in the car as we go. And the nature of my work being what it is, confidentiality issues dictate we can’t sit next to each other while I do it. If you wouldn’t be too terribly offended, would you mind riding up in front with Anthea until I finish? It’s not ideal - I’d love to have the time to talk with you - but some of these tasks are extremely time-sensitive.”

Gregory stepped out from under the umbrella, eyes fixed on the car. “This is bloody ridiculous, is what this is.”

Mycroft’s heart sank. “I’m sorry, it’s unforgivable of me to have asked. It makes me a terrible host. I’ll put it off-”

“Not that, you berk,” Gregory interrupted. “The limo. You have a fucking limousine.”

“It’s not mine, personally, but I did borrow it for the weekend.” Mycroft eyed Gregory - despite his outburst, he didn’t seem angry. Seemed intrigued, actually. “Her Majesty’s service keeps it on hand for . . . special guests. It’s regularly swept for surveillance, the back compartment can be completely soundproofed and isolated from the front, and it’s resistant to bullets and most smaller explosives. It’s one of the few places I can safely do . . . what I do.”

“Who borrowed it last?”

“The President of the United States, I believe.” Mycroft frowned. “Does it matter?”

“Not a bit.” Gregory grinned. “Just curious, is all. But yes, fine, let’s get out of the rain. You’re bloody brilliant, you know that? Jesus, a weekend kidnapping. Anthea’s driving, I assume?”

Anthea chose that moment to open the front door from the inside - not how a professional chauffeur would have done it, but she hated being mistaken for house staff and frequently did little things like that to get under Mycroft’s skin - and within five minutes they were all safely in the limousine and slowly moving through the London traffic. Mycroft waited a few minutes to ensure both Anthea and Gregory were settled, then raised the opaque wall between the two compartments. He could still hear Gregory and Anthea, but they couldn’t hear or see him.

“He do this often?” Gregory asked her quietly.

Silence, which Mycroft knew to interpret as Anthea’s irritatingly eloquent (but entirely faked) non-interest. Gregory didn’t take the hint, though.

“So an estate. Like a mansion?”

More silence.

“At least warn me - are he and I going to be dodging servants in some bloody castle the whole weekend, or will we get the place to ourselves? Are you bunking with us?”

A long pause, then Anthea sighed. “I will stay in the dower house, as I usually do. The only other staff will be Mr. Holmes’ security team, and you won’t even see them if they’re good at their jobs. Please stop fussing, Detective Inspector. It’s a long drive.”

Gregory spent the rest of the next three hours either staring out the window (silently) or dozing (with a bit of a snore). Mycroft finished as much paperwork as he could, made the most essential phone calls, sent a few dozen emails in the hopes of delegating any country-wide collapse until Sunday, then allowed himself to doze as well.

***  
They didn’t reach the house until well after dark, even with the cool spring evening staying light as late as it did. Gregory roused when the car turned into the gravel drive, blinking sleepily.

“Hey. Guess I napped a bit.”

Mycroft double-checked that everything was stowed back in his briefcase, then lowered the screen. “I truly am sorry to have ignored you so far,” he said, hoping Gregory would read the sincerity on his face. “You must be famished by now.”

Gregory muffled a yawn. “Yeah, guess I am, a bit. Are we here?”

“You’ll be able to see it once we round this last bend. I asked for supper to be ready for us - we’ll worry about everything else later.”

Mycroft knew he had perhaps allowed Gregory to be misled a bit in his preconceptions, but he still had to smile at the man’s outright bark of laughter when the house finally came into view. The porch lights were on - meaning the security team had finished their sweep - and the completely average size of the plain one-story house was easy to see.

“You berk,” Gregory said with an amused huff. “Here you’re going on about an estate, and Anthea said there was a dower house, and I was picturing a bloody mansion.”

“I have no idea why you’d get that impression,” Mycroft replied with a perfectly straight face. “This was the house Sherlock and I grew up in, but our parents retired to Scotland several years back. I like to keep it available for occasional escapes to the country. It’s blessedly isolated, as you probably guessed from the long private drive.”

“Yet it has a dower house?”

“Yes - the carriage house was converted into a small apartment back in the 1950s.” He shrugged. “It provides a good command center for the security systems, and will keep my team from being underfoot while we’re here. Any other questions?”

Gregory grinned. “Just one - what’s for dinner?”


	6. Chapter 6

There was a pot of stew waiting for them on the stove in the kitchen, which brought Mycroft up short. Gregory noticed and gave him an odd look. “Something wrong?”

 _Just surprised_. “I owe my assistant a round of thanks - usually I fend for myself while I’m here, but obviously she thought ahead.”

“I mostly didn’t want to subsist on sandwiches after a drive like that,” Anthea commented, breezing into the room behind them. “Whitby offered, and the rest of your security detail and I took him up on it - thank him instead. You’re still on your own for the rest of the weekend, though - we’re hoarding him in the dower house from now on.”

“I hadn’t realized Whitby could cook. Pass along my appropriate gratitude?” Mycroft set down his briefcase on the counter and dug in the cupboard to pull out three soup bowls. “I was trying to weigh the benefits of impressing Gregory with my culinary skills against the fact that it’s late and we’re starving.”

“Oi,” the DI interjected. “I’m perfectly happy to be blown away by your cooking skills tomorrow - right now, that pot smells heavenly. I’m still adjusting to the fact that I’m _here_ instead of somewhere in London at the moment.”

Anthea took her stew and disappeared outside - presumably everyone else had already eaten - which left Mycroft and Gregory sitting alone at the kitchen table. It was a strangely domestic scene. Mycroft couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually dined here _with_ somebody - probably before his parents moved, actually, and that had been years ago. Excluding his family and Anthea, Gregory was the only person Mycroft had shared a meal with outside of work for a long time.

“Penny for your thoughts? Or do they run pricier than that?” Gregory grinned at him over a spoonful of stew. “You were looking lost over there.”

“Just trying to remember the last time I’d had company here,” Mycroft said honestly. “It’s been forever.”

“You don’t bring your boyfriends around often, then?” Gregory immediately reddened. “Sorry, didn’t mean to say that out loud. That was rude.”

“I - no, it’s alright.” _He has to find out sometime._ Mycroft took a deep breath. “The truth is, I’ve never had a partner like that. Boyfriend or otherwise. I’m . . . finding it difficult to navigate what you expect of me.” _Lord, that sounded pathetic._ “Not your fault, of course, but-”

“I get it,” Gregory interrupted. “Hey. Mycroft. Look at me.”

He lifted his eyes from the battered tabletop to Gregory’s face.

“It’s _fine_ , okay? I told you that last week, and I still mean it. I’m not expecting anything.” Gregory grinned again. “Hopeful, maybe, but there’s no wrong answer here. Let’s just take this one day at a time, yeah?”

“I’m terrible at this.”

“Then let me decide that for myself. We’ve got the whole weekend to try this out - if you want us to spend it all curled up on the couch together watching rugby, that’s good with me. Or, you know, whatever.” He reddened slightly, and Mycroft had a good guess what _whatever_ might have meant. It was a great deal more tempting than rugby.

They reverted to safer topics for the rest of the meal, casual comments about the rain and what was going on at the Yard and whether Gregory’s upstairs neighbors could possibly be housing a herd of buffalo in their flat at odd hours. They worked together to wash up, then Mycroft took Gregory on a brief tour of the house - brief because it wasn’t that large, not really, but Gregory was impressed anyway. 

“I can see why you come here often,” he said, standing in the doorway to the small library and taking in the room with an observant eye. “This right here is pretty much _you_ made into a room.” He nodded toward the fireplace, set and ready for a match. “I take back what I said about watching rugby - I’d settle for that fire and a good book. Let me guess - the desk is for doing work, but the green chair near the window is where you relax.”

“You said you wanted to see me unbutton,” Mycroft murmured. “This is where I do it.”

“Hmmm.” Gregory glanced sideways at him, then strode to the fireplace and lit it with a deftness which indicated previous experience - camping, Mycroft guessed. Family bonding time somewhere outside the city, cheap outing but nostalgic - something his father had done growing up, then. One more piece of information to add to his mental file.

There was something almost predatory in the way Gregory stalked back toward the doorway, eyes on Mycroft’s chest. He shucked his own suitcoat as he went, draping it carelessly over the back of the nearest chair, revealing wilted-looking white shirtsleeves and a naturally fit physique. Mycroft didn’t get nearly enough time to take it all in before Gregory was in front of him, undoing the neat row of buttons down his jacket in order to slip it off his shoulders.

“Figured you wouldn’t mind me doing the unbuttoning, just this once,” Gregory said in a low voice.

Mycroft allowed the jacket to be pulled off and tried to concentrate on breathing - suddenly difficult, now that Gregory was so close and in just his shirtsleeves and Christ, leaning in so his breath warmed the side of Mycroft’s neck.

“Relaxed yet?” Gregory whispered, practically in his ear.

 _No._ There was no way in hell he could relax, not with only the fabric of their shirts preventing their chests from touching, not with Gregory’s mouth so close to the sensitive skin over his carotid. Not with _that look_.

“I want to find a book,” Gregory murmured. “You go sit in your armchair - I assume that bloody huge tome with the bookmark in it on the side table is yours? - and you just relax. And I’m going to sit on the floor with my book, leaning up against your chair, and I’m going to enjoy being on the very short list of people you trust to see you with your guard down. And both of us are going to unwind here, together, after a long week, side by side, just _not being alone_. Is that okay?”

It was more than okay - it was bloody fantastic, and Mycroft wished he had the words to say so. He didn’t seem to need them, though; Gregory was already crossing back over the small room to drop gracelessly on the rug in front of the fire.

“What do you recommend?”

Mycroft took a moment to just drink in the sight, then unerringly selected a Western from the small collection in the bookcase near the door. His secret guilty pleasure, but something he’d be happy to share. “Here - I noticed you have his other series at your flat, but you were missing the ones he did under a pen name.”

Gregory shook his head and grinned. “You’re bloody amazing.”

***

They stayed like that for nearly two hours, despite the fire burning down to a dull glow and Mycroft belatedly realizing he wasn’t taking in a word of his book because it was in the original German and his language skills seemed to have fizzled somewhere around the time Gregory’s hand found its way to his calf. The DI didn’t push, just lazed contentedly against the side of Mycroft’s chair and let his fingertips trace soothing circles against Mycroft’s leg through the fabric of his trousers. He didn’t even seem to realize he was doing it, at first, although after a while Mycroft caught his sideways glance and they both froze.

“Want me to stop?”

“No.”

“You’re not reading anymore.”

“ . . . no.”

“Good - me neither.” Gregory set his book aside and cocked his head in invitation. “Want to come sit down here with me, or not tonight?”

 _If not tonight, then when?_ It was ridiculous to be so nervous about this, especially at Mycroft’s age. He knew he was an anomaly, knew he was probably going to disappoint Gregory with his lack of experience, but putting it off wouldn’t solve anything. The best strategy would be to confront the issue now, before he could slide even further into the confusing morass of emotion and relationships and _Christ,_ if there was one thing Mycroft knew he was usually good at, it was strategy.

He slid forward and lowered himself to the floor next to Gregory, shoulder-to-shoulder, both of their backs against the armchair. Which then shifted under their combined weight, tipping Gregory over at an awkward angle, causing him to stifle a surprised squawk and thoroughly breaking the moment.

“Sorry,” Gregory choked out. “Mister Suave, that’s me.”

Mycroft fought a smile. “I have no complaints.”

“I appreciate that - you’re always so put-together, I can barely stand it.” Gregory raked an eye over Mycroft’s body, starting at his shoes and running all the way up to his face. “Makes me itch to take you apart, actually. From the first time I heard your voice - even not knowing what you looked like - I swear there was a part of me that wanted to see if you had any other mode than calm and cultured. You can’t have always been like this.”

 _Nearly always._ “You’d be surprised.”

“Then I got to know Sherlock better and it made more sense - you had to be grown-up enough for the both of you.” He slid closer, not actually touching but very, very present. “Let me guess - you were always the good one. You were equally brilliant, but he showed it off and you learned tact instead. Don’t try to deny it. I know you observe just as many stupid little things as he does - did - but you know how to save that information for when it would do the most good.” He leaned forward until his lips were nearly touching the shell of Mycroft’s ear. “Tell me - what are you observing about me right now, Mycroft?”

 _Fuck._ Mycroft’s mind was a perfect blank, short-circuited by the mental image of Gregory possibly lunging that little bit further and taking his earlobe between those sinfully perfect lips. He would, too, if Mycroft gave the slightest indication it would be welcome - he was just waiting-

“Gregory.” The word came out as a whisper.

“Doing this on your timeline,” Gregory promised, his voice deeper than Mycroft had ever heard it before. “I’m not going to touch you unless you want me to. But that doesn’t mean I won’t stoop to some incredibly dirty tricks to help you make up your mind. Shall I tell you what _I’m_ thinking about right now?”

Mycroft managed a tiny nod.

“I’m thinking about how you’d react if I licked you, just here in the tender spot behind your earlobe. I’m thinking you’d probably freeze up completely, maybe let out a bit of a moan, but you’d be desperate to see what I’d do next. And you wouldn’t stop me from shoving this monstrous armchair out of the way and laying you back against this rug, still a bit warm from being near the fire. I’d unbutton that damned starched shirt you’re wearing and shove it to the side so I could see your bare chest, so I could kiss you there and feel your heartbeat against my lips. I’m pretty sure the sexiest thing in the fucking universe would be seeing you all dressed proper like this, with your still-creased trousers and your loafers which cost more than my flat, but with your shirt half-open and rumpled and a triangle of your chest showing. You’d look positively edible like that. Make me want to nibble you all over.”

Mycroft didn’t even have enough breath left in his lungs to groan.

“I’d do that too, Mycroft,” Gregory whispered. “Paint every inch of you with my mouth, kissing and sucking and nipping and licking to find out what you taste like. Sometimes gentle and sometimes not, I think. Depending on how you were reacting. If I do it right, the fucking US President could declare nuclear war on Britain and you’d still be more focused on what my mouth is doing to you at that exact instant. It may have been twenty years since I’ve been with a man, but I promise I haven’t forgotten a thing about how to make it good for both of us.”

Mycroft wanted that very much. He was obscenely hard - didn’t have to glance down to see that his trousers weren’t hiding _that_ \- and Gregory smelled bloody fantastic and if he kept up that monologue much longer, Mycroft was in real danger of spilling in his pants like a horny teenager. Gregory was so close, so deliciously close, and he was obviously more than willing-

“I’ll let you think about it,” Gregory murmured, nearly a growl now. “Dream about me tonight. I’m headed off to the guest room - alone - because you do need to work this through for yourself and God knows I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you much longer if I stay in here. Your choice, but it’d be nice if you decided something this weekend. This little holiday is bloody perfect and I refuse to let such a perfect chance slip by. Goodnight.”

“Wait.” Mycroft grabbed his hand as he rose to leave and pulled him back down into an awkward kiss. It wasn’t sexy - the angles were all wrong, Gregory was half-crouching and in serious danger of tipping over - but he seemed to understand the thank-you for what it was, because he kissed back gently and didn’t push. When they broke apart again several seconds later, Mycroft didn’t try to stop him.

“Goodnight.”

Mycroft stayed there staring into the dying fire for a long, long time.


	7. Chapter 7

“Good morning - I come bearing coffee.”

Gregory rolled over to face Mycroft in the dim moonlight and yawned. “You’re a saint, you know that?” He blinked a few times, then struggled upward to prop his shoulders against the headboard as he scrubbed a palm over his bare chest. “Christ, what time is it? Still dark outside?”

Mycroft’s ability to answer was severely hindered, however, by the sight of Gregory’s hand massaging his sternum. _Shirtless. Does he sleep naked?_

He must have been a bit obvious about it, because Gregory glanced down with a sheepish grin and tossed the sheet off entirely. “It was a compromise.” He wore a pair of maroon pajama trousers underneath.

Mycroft tore his attention from Gregory’s chest and blinked.

“Yeah, I know exactly what you were thinking,” Gregory said, pointing directly at Mycroft’s nose. “And the answer is yes, I usually do sleep naked unless it’s the middle of winter. But you - or your assistant, I can never tell - bought me these obscenely comfortable silk pajamas, and it seemed like a waste not to use them. So I settled on just half.”

“I’m glad you like them,” Mycroft said automatically. And kicked himself - apparently the reflexive-diplomatic-meaningless-phrases part of his brain was the only one still operating at full capacity.

“Seriously, though, what time is it? And is that coffee for me?”

Mycroft startled, nodded, and set the coffee on the nightstand. “I’ve been reliably informed you function better in the mornings when you’ve had your regular dose of caffeine.”

“Damn right.” Gregory took a deep drink and sighed contentedly. “Okay, that’s better.” He flipped on the bedside lamp. And then his jaw dropped. “Mycroft - you’re wearing _jeans_.”

“I do own some clothing that’s not bespoke,” Mycroft replied mildly. “And to answer your other question, it’s about half an hour before dawn. It’s when the fish are biting. You’ll find something suitable for yourself in the wardrobe.”

Gregory’s face lit up. “Mycroft Holmes - are you taking me _fishing?”_

“You did want to see what I did to unwind, didn’t you?”

“That’s amazing.” Gregory surged out of bed and pressed a firm kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “You may laugh at me for this, but I’ve never been fishing before and I’ve always wanted to try it. Not much chance in London.”

“Nothing worth catching in the city, anyway - I keep the lake here stocked with trout and pike year-round.” Mycroft rather hoped they could actually catch something - fresh brown trout for lunch would be an excellent way to show off his culinary skills, and would almost certainly be another “first” for Gregory as well. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen when you’re ready - the sooner we can get out on the lake, the better.”

***

The air was chilly with a hint of damp as they made their way to the dock in the semi-darkness. Gregory stood around awkwardly as Mycroft got all the gear ready, then followed his step-by-step instructions as they worked together to flip the canoe and walk it to the water. By the time they were both settled - rods and net and tacklebox and life jackets tossed loosely between the bow and stern thwarts, a paddle apiece, and jackets zipped up tightly against the budding wind - Mycroft was starting to feel that familiar calming sensation in his chest. It was practically Pavlovian by now, fishing and the need to unwind so closely linked in his brain. He maneuvered the canoe to his favorite cove, a sheltered inlet overhung with branches, and clipped lures on both lines.

“I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing,” Gregory admitted.

“It’s not hard - we’re not using live bait, so there’s no need to worry about how best to skewer a worm. Just avoid the rocks, try not to impale me with your hook, and we’ll be fine. I’ve got the depth set for you already.” Mycroft adjusted the sinker to be a bit farther up the line and passed the rod to Gregory. “Press the line to the rod with your forefinger and hit this button here to release the reel, then cast and let go of the line. Doesn’t have to be all that hard - the lure will pull the line out as far as it needs.”

Gregory’s first attempt went straight into a clump of weeds, but his second try was a passably good placement between two fallen logs. Mycroft went the other direction, landing exactly where he intended it to, closer to shore. They passed several comfortable minutes in silence.

“How do I know if I have something?” Gregory asked.

“When that yellow thing twitches, something is nosing around your lure. And if it goes underwater completely, pull.”

Gregory’s bobber did dip a bit, a moment later, but his enthusiastic yank on the line yielded nothing but a few strands of seaweed. Mycroft picked it off, tossed it back into the lake, and cast Gregory’s line to land in the same place again. “Let’s see if you can’t interest him more this time.”

“Right.”

The trees sheltered the inlet from the dawn breeze, but it also blocked line of sight to the sunrise. The entire sky was changing colors, though, navy to maroon and then on into red and orange and yellow as the sun climbed higher above the horizon. A few puffy cumulus clouds glowed amber against the fading stars. The air was still chilly, but the rising sun promised to burn off most of the damp within the next few hours.

“Thank you,” Gregory said suddenly, his eyes on the shifting colors. “For all this. I don’t think I’ve seen a sunrise from the right side of the night in ages.”

Mycroft snuck a longer look at him - Gregory was calm, relaxed, and a smile flirted with the corners of his lips. Even in the puffy jacket, he was damn sexy. Comfortable. Mycroft would share this dawn fishing routine with him every day, if he could, if only to see him look like this more often.

“It grounds me,” Mycroft admitted. “Being out here, in the country. Fishing, in particular. I feel like I need this, sometimes.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Gregory said. “Sometimes I . . . well, I thought Annie was what I wanted. And we held it together for a long time. But after she left, I realized I missed this. Missed just being myself, not a DI or a husband or a potential-someday-father. Even when I did have free time, there was always something to do - responsibilities I had to take care of, and Annie there to disapprove if I skived off and did something else instead.” He shot Mycroft a long sideways glance. “Don’t you ever feel like the responsibility is too much?”

 _Often._ “Occasionally. But I’ve never had much of a choice, not since I started . . . doing what I do.”

Gregory pondered that in silence for a minute. “Is that why you’ve never dated?” he finally asked.

It was one of many reasons - Mycroft knew he was also too fat, too prissy, too pompous, too _other_ to keep any partner’s attention like that - but he nodded anyway.

And Gregory smiled in return before turning his attention back to the small yellow float bobbing on the water’s surface. “They’re all idiots,” he said.

“Who?”

“All the other men you know. The ones who would pass you over because of your position. I can tell it’s not just a job for you, Mycroft - you do it because you’re brilliant and amazing and nobody else could take your place, true, but you also do it because you care. Because it matters.” He snorted. “I don’t even know what the hell you do with your time each day, but I’m glad you’re doing it. And I’m not going to hold that against you.”

It took effort to keep his face neutral in the wake of Gregory’s pronouncement. Mycroft stared blankly at the lightening horizon ahead of him and tried to formulate a response - what could he say to that? He could feel Gregory’s gaze on him again, now, gentle but probing, and it was all Mycroft could do to not say _to hell with it_ and drag the man closer for a long, thorough kiss. The shift in weight would probably swamp the canoe, but it would be worth it-

A splash drew attention from both of them - Gregory’s bobber disappearing below the surface and traveling sideways at a fair clip. Gregory yanked sharply on his rod, just perfect, and they were treated to a beautiful show as the rainbow trout on the end of the line leapt out of the water in an attempt to avoid capture. The moment was broken, and Mycroft wasn’t sure whether or not he should have been relieved.

“Very nice,” Mycroft said, his voice normal only through years of practice. “Keep the line taut and start reeling him in - I’ve got the net.”

It did turn out to be a good-sized rainbow, and it even obligingly spit out the lure in its first panicked flops around the bottom of the canoe. Mycroft got it quickly on the stringer, tied the end off, and tossed both fish and rope over the side. “That will keep him happy until we head back. Nice work.”

“Hardly work - I just sat here.”

“And looked marvellous doing it,” Mycroft said. And then immediately wondered where his brain-to-mouth filter had gone - he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

Gregory just laughed, though, and lined up another cast. “That was fun - let’s do it again!”

The cast got stuck under a rock and required nearly ten minutes of maneuvering to retrieve.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn upfront that I'd probably be irregular in updating this fic . . . I do promise I'm not abandoning it, though!

The final tally, when they eventually headed in, was three fish apiece. None of Mycroft’s were more than fifteen centimeters long, though, so Gregory was definitely ahead in the “fish actually big enough to eat” department. The last of the morning fog was just burning off as they got the canoe back to shore.

“So is this my chance to see your culinary prowess?” Gregory asked on the way back to the house. “I’ll admit I’m capable of at least cooking pasta, but I don’t know what I’d do with whole - _live_ \- fish.”

Mycroft lifted the stringer higher, where one of the four trout worth keeping was indeed still twitching a bit. “I suppose? Although it depends on whether by ‘see’ you mean actually watching me fillet and cook them, or whether you’d prefer to read a bit more and have me call you when breakfast is ready. And whether you think watching me fillet them would be sexy or whether you’d find it too evocative of the less pleasant crimes you investigate. I promise I won’t mind if you’d prefer to just appreciate the finished product.”

“No, it’s . . .” Gregory backed up a step and gave Mycroft a thorough once-over. “Even now, I have trouble picturing you getting your hands dirty.”

“Not accusing me of ‘field work’ any more, then?”

Gregory replied with a grin. “I like thinking of you as my own personal James Bond.”

“I don’t recall him ever filleting a fish,” Mycroft countered. “But truth be told, it’s not as hard as you might think.”

Gregory did actually watch with interest as Mycroft set up a cutting board outside and walked him through how to cut a boneless fillet. It was slimy, messy work, but with very little actual blood involved. Gregory managed to even do a reasonable job on the smallest trout, once Mycroft walked him through it. They ended up with more than enough fish for a decent fry-up, and Mycroft made a mental note to walk the extras out to the dowager house for his security team as a belated thank-you for the previous night’s stew. Hopefully they’d let Whitby have first dibs.

Frying fish was considerably easier than filleting it. Mycroft had always enjoyed cooking, when he had the time - it allowed him a bit of freedom from relying _entirely_ on paid staff, and it gave him more control over his own diet. Eating healthy was always much easier when you could determine your own menu. Not that pan-fried trout was particularly “healthy” by any stretch of the imagination, but it was hot and that seemed like the most important criterion at the moment. Gregory helped slice tomatoes and cut up some fruit and between the two of them, they managed a late breakfast fit for at least eight people. Mycroft sent two thirds of it off with Anthea, then settled in to eat.

“This is amazing,” Gregory said. “Why do we keep eating out on Friday nights when you can cook like this?”

 _Because I like being able to concentrate on you?_ “Hunger is the best seasoning,” Mycroft said instead. “And fish always tastes better when you catch it yourself.”

“Can’t get any fresher, yeah?” Gregory grinned and speared a slice of tomato. “Mycroft - thank you for this. I don’t know when I’ve last had time to just . . . hell.” He ducked his head, but his grin didn’t abate. “In case you were curious,” he added with a little self-deprecating laugh, “watching you roll up your sleeves and wield a knife like that and then swan around the kitchen in jeans and that damn button-down definitely comes down on the ‘sexy as fuck’ end of the spectrum.”

“Oh?” Mycroft daintily cut another bite of fish, fighting to hide the immense wave of relief that flashed through him at the realization that Gregory actually _liked_ this side of him. “What else is on this spectrum, then?”

“Oh, it’s quite a list.” Gregory cocked his head to the side and studied him for a long moment. “The suits, definitely. I want to peel you out of them, one button at a time - maybe leave your braces on but undo your shirt to partway down your chest so I can nudge the collar back and get a good taste of your skin underneath. The limo, too - I spent half the drive here daydreaming of all the sexy things I’d like to do to you in that sound-proofed, formally-debugged back seat.”

 _Damn._ Mycroft very carefully put his fork back down on his plate. “And the jeans are on this list as well?”

Gregory’s expression was nothing short of predatory. “Fine, don’t say I didn’t warn you . . . right. The jeans. You may or may not be aware that they do wonderful things for your arse, but they do. You look more approachable this way - still a bit of a posh bloke, mind you, but one who might not have another bloke arrested for daring to offer a blow job. I want to slide my hands into your back pockets and rock you against me until I can feel you getting hard, then slide down to my knees and unzip you and pull you out from your pants with my tongue. Want to prop you up with my hands on the backs of your thighs and suck you down so you lose that posh train of thought and just swear incoherently like the rest of us poor mortals. I’ve still never seen you less than perfectly, completely dressed, by the way - so yeah, the jeans are bloody well on ‘the list.’”

“Oh. Erm.” It was an inelegant response, and totally inadequate, but Gregory’s little speech seemed to have swept Mycroft’s brain clean of all coherent replies. “That’s . . . good. A good list.”

Gregory grinned and sucked a quartered strawberry off his fork with significantly more lip movement and suction than was strictly necessary. Mycroft swallowed hard and reminded himself that this was _okay_. More than okay - Gregory actually _wanted_ him to react. Derived enjoyment from it in return.

“In the interest of full disclosure,” he said in a slightly choked tone, “I . . . felt similarly this morning. Seeing you in your pyjamas.”

“Only half my pyjamas,” Gregory corrected. “Which is half more than I normally wear, as you may recall.”

 _Like I’d ever forget_ that _mental image._ Mycroft didn’t even know where to look - actually making eye contact with Gregory was downright terrifying when his mental state was this jumbled, but staring down at the table between them would make him look like he disapproved of Gregory ogling him when the exact contrary was true. He eventually settled for letting his eyes rest somewhere in the vicinity of Gregory’s left shoulder. “I do have an excellent memory,” he said.

“Oh, I know. And don’t think _that_ doesn’t turn me on too. The idea of my own little quirks and turn-ons being stored away somewhere in that eidetic memory, so you can replay everything any time you want. And recreate it. I can tell you to remember exactly what I tasted like during our first kiss and you could, couldn’t you?”

 _Scotch and curry and cumin and coriander and warm, spicy breath, the slide of tongues together, so agile, so much potential, the hint of a promise of more_ \- Mycroft sucked in a shaky breath.

“Mmmmm.” Gregory stood, abandoning the rest of his breakfast, and pulled Mycroft to his feet. “I think I need to kiss you again. For comparative purposes.”

“Oh?” His voice was shaky too.

“Very definitely.” Gregory slid a warm palm around the back of Mycroft’s neck, tugging him closer, and insinuated his other hand between Mycroft’s arm and his waist. “I want you to catalogue each kiss, each everything. Only way to learn, right?”

“I-”

But that’s as far as he got, because Gregory was surging forward and capturing his lips the moment he opened his mouth. Mycroft melted into him, letting Gregory direct them both, concentrating on committing every single second to the most thorough memory he could-

“Sir?”

Gregory didn’t actually jump back, but he did pull away with a reluctant smile and a slight eye roll for Anthea, who was standing in the doorway and who obviously would have preferred to be somewhere else.

“Can it wait?” Mycroft asked. He already knew she wouldn’t have interrupted if it could, but the question bought time for his mind to slip back into work mode.

She smiled politely and held out his mobile. “His Excellency is expecting a reply in the next ten minutes, sir. Concerning that minor matter from last week. Perhaps the Detective Inspector might care to explore the back garden for a few minutes?”

Gregory hung his head and shook it, but he was smiling. “Not going to ask,” he said. “And I think I’ll actually go lie down for a bit. Apparently fishing requires waking up really bloody early, and I didn’t get as much sleep as I’d like last night. Kept having a really persistent dream.” His smirk proclaimed _exactly_ what that dream might have been about.

“My apologies,” Mycroft said automatically.

“Oh, I’m not complaining - pretty sure that was the most bloody fun I’ve ever had at 5 AM before. Without staying up all night first, anyway.” He nodded politely at Anthea, then glanced back at Mycroft and paused. “It’s not a videoconference, is it?”

Mycroft looked pointedly down at his jeans and less-than-immaculate casual shirt. “I sincerely hope not.”

“Good.” And then Gregory surged forward to snog him again, long and thorough and breathtaking.

The Prime Minister of Pakistan was only slightly put out that Mycroft took a full fifteen minutes to return his call.


	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft finally managed to sort out the Pakistan issue - it wasn’t quite a political crisis, not yet, but it certainly had the potential to become so if not closely monitored and controlled. The Prime Minister had been grudgingly appreciative of the help. Mycroft had just been eager to be done.

When he knocked on Gregory’s open door and peeked through, though, he saw Gregory was indeed sound asleep in the middle of the mattress. He’d stripped out of his fishing clothes and put the maroon pajama trousers on again, the silky fabric shifting slightly as he breathed. The window shade was shut but there was still enough sunlight filtering in to color Gregory’s bare back with accents of yellow and gold, highlighting his natural skin tone. Mycroft hovered in the hallway for several minutes, memorizing everything he could about the tableau before him.

“All done?” Gregory mumbled.

Mycroft started, dragged out of his increasingly erotic thoughts. “Sorry,” he said automatically.

“Mmmm. Don’t be.” Gregory rolled over onto his side and gave a languid full-body stretch. “It‘s bloody sexy, if you must know - waking up to finding you practically drooling over me. Come here.”

Mycroft sucked in a breath and straightened his spine. “I wasn’t drooling.”

“Yes you were.” Gregory tilted his head and jerked it in a “get over here” motion. “You were locking everything away in that incredible brain of yours so you could get off on it later, weren’t you?”

The instant denial sprang to Mycroft’s lips. “I don’t-”

“You should.” Gregory rolled smoothly up to a sitting position - showing off the fact that yes, he _did_ have some rather well-defined abdominal muscles which probably were a result of more legwork than he liked - and settled back down to sit on his feet. “In fact, I’d like you to. Next time you’re lying in bed alone and dying for a wank, do it while thinking about me being right there with you, half-naked and up for anything. I certainly will.”

 _Oh god._ Mycroft had to swallow twice before his voice felt like it would come out sounding normal. “What - what would that entail? When you do it?”

“Me?” Gregory’s eyes drifted down slowly down Mycroft’s body, then back up, assessing him and sending a rush of heat through every nerve ending he had. “Want me to describe it, Mycroft? There’s really rather a lot I’d like to do to you, you know.”

All Mycroft could do was to nod and hold tightly onto the doorframe so he didn’t flat-out faint. Not enough blood left for his brain, apparently-

“Hmmm.” Gregory bit his lip. “God, what first? Okay, if I’m just picking one fantasy . . . I’m going to think about you coming over here and kissing me. A little shy, but willing to go with the moment. And I’d be kneeling, like this, but closer to the edge of the bed so you wouldn’t have to lean over too far.” He suited the action to the words, shuffling forward so his knees hung over the edge of the mattress. “Close enough I could slide my hands over your arse and insinuate them into your back pockets while we kissed. You’d jump a bit, of course, but then you’d relax into the kiss and tentatively settle your own hands on my shoulders. Which would be totally fine. I’d squeeze a little, just enjoying the way your arse feels in my grip, and you’d be torn between pulling away out of embarrassment or leaning in more. Which, by the way - nothing to be embarrassed about, Mycroft. It’s not your fault you have an absolutely luscious bum and I will probably be terrible at keeping my hands off it.”

Mycroft blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah, so it’s all good.” Gregory shifted his weight, which also shifted the muscles under what was obviously a barely-even-there layer of fat on his stomach. Mycroft’s mouth went dry again.

“Let me take your shirt off?” Gregory ran his eyes slowly over Mycroft’s torso, not at all shy about blatantly ogling. “We can go as slow as you want, but I - I really want to get my hands on you. The whole time we were eating, I just wanted to lean across the table and unbutton whatever I could reach. I swear I will not be responsible for my actions if I ever see you in an actual t-shirt.”

Gregory’s words were confident, a hint of a smirk still in his voice, but Mycroft was astonished to see a bit of a blush stealing up the man’s cheeks. _Not as cocksure about this as he’d like me to believe, then._ Mycroft hauled in a deep breath and crossed to stand between Gregory’s knees. “I want to get my hands on you, too,” he confessed.

“Go for it.” Gregory sat up a bit higher, bringing his face level with Mycroft’s collarbone, and began slowly undoing the top buttons. Mycroft swallowed back a hint of panic and focused on the way the muscles in Gregory’s shoulders flexed as he worked. He wanted to touch them. Wanted to feel them as they moved and shifted, let the warmth of Gregory’s skin seep through his palms. They’d touched each other in passing so many times, but this seemed so much _more_ -

Gregory pulled the top part of Mycroft’s button-down open and pressed a dry kiss to the sternum beneath. Mycroft felt the contact all the way to his toes. He settled his hands on Gregory’s shoulders, more to keep his balance than anything else, but then Gregory made a happy little humming sound and Mycroft couldn’t move. He stood there, just _feeling,_ until Gregory sat back on his heels and looked up at him.

“You’re nervous,” Gregory said.

Mycroft hated that it was so obvious. “I’ve never . . . you’re the first to see me like this,” he admitted. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up - I’ve never had the same metabolism as Sherlock, and I know my physical attributes haven’t appreciated with age. I’m worried you’ll be disappointed.”

“Never.”

A half-second was all the warning Mycroft got before Gregory had one arm on his shoulder and the other on his waist and was overbalancing him onto the bed. Mycroft landed on his side with Gregory sprawled out next to him, grinning.

“Take the shirt off,” Gregory urged. “You’re overdressed.”

“You always think I’m overdressed,” Mycroft countered, but he shrugged the button-down off and dropped it over the side of the bed.

“Posh suits are on the list, remember?” Gregory squirmed and shifted until they were lying face-to-face and naked chest to naked chest, only a few inches of space between them. “That’s a fantasy for another time, though. Right now I think I’d like you kiss me until I can’t see straight.”

Mycroft may have been the one who initially leaned forward to touch their lips together, but Gregory was the one responsible for turning a simple kiss into a full-blown melding of mouths. He didn’t seem in a hurry to get down to the sex part, either - they spent long, delightful minutes just tasting each other, until Mycroft finally started to relax and the gentle rasp of Gregory’s chest hair against his own no longer felt odd or awkward. Somehow in the intervening time Gregory’s hand had indeed found its way into Mycroft’s back pocket, but Gregory wasn’t doing anything more than just holding him and it was surprisingly okay. Mycroft tentatively let his hand drift up and down along Gregory’s side, lightly at first and then slightly more firmly when Gregory squirmed.

“Ticklish,” Gregory murmured into the kiss.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Gregory propped himself up on one elbow and started angling his kisses downward along Mycroft’s jaw, then back toward his earlobe. Mycroft gasped in a breath and closed his eyes - if it hadn’t been for Gregory’s hand on his arse and his lips on his neck, he’d have been floating away with no interference from gravity at all.

“Gregory-”

“Christ, say it again. Say my name.” He nipped gently at the corner of Mycroft’s jaw, then followed up with a startlingly hot lick. “I love when your voice goes all rumbly like that.”

“God, Gregory . . .” Mycroft was practically panting now. It was imperative that they do something _more_ but Mycroft was sure he’d die if they stopped what they were doing already-

“I’ve got you.” Gregory rolled Mycroft back and shifted downward slightly, so Mycroft was lying nearly flat and Gregory was pressed above him, the better to focus his attention on Mycroft’s right collarbone. Gregory’s impressively flat stomach was now pressed tightly against the bulge in Mycroft’s jeans, but neither of them acknowledged it.

“I want - I want-” The words were beyond him, but Mycroft’s desperate squirming was probably eloquent enough all on its own. Gregory grinned - Mycroft could _feel_ it through his kisses - and reached down between them to lay a flat palm over Mycroft’s cock.

_“Fuck!”_

“I think I love it when you swear.” Gregory fondled him again, gently rubbing the heel of his hand up and down Mycroft’s ridiculously hard erection, until Mycroft cursed again and shoved Gregory’s hand out of the way so he could strip himself out of his now-too-tight jeans. Gregory lost no time in shedding his own pajama trousers, watching greedily the entire time. His own cock was gorgeous, thick and full and standing out from a thatch of surprisingly dark pubic hair. Mycroft didn’t realize he was reaching for it until it was too late to draw back.

“I, um.” He paused, feeling ridiculous with his hand frozen halfway between them. “May I?”

“God, yes.” Gregory grinned and shuffled backward on the mattress to make room for both of them to lie side-by-side. “I assume you don’t mind me returning the favor?”

They ended up hip-to-hip, angled slightly toward each other, both watching as they palmed each other’s bare cocks. All Mycroft’s intentions of cataloguing Gregory’s every reaction vaporized the moment Gregory wrapped his hand around him. “Holy fuck,” he breathed again. Gregory started to laugh, but the sound disappeared into a choked gasp as Mycroft copied the gesture. Mycroft was torn between watching Gregory’s cock and watching the blissful expressions flash across his face. _If only_. . .

“Wish I had thought to bring supplies,” he murmured just loud enough for Gregory to hear. “You could have had your wicked way with me.”

Gregory surprised him by wriggling out of reach and diving toward the drawer in the bedside table. “I thought this didn’t seem like your style,” he said. And drew out an enormous bottle of lubricant, still in the shrink wrap.

“That’s . . .” Mycroft was rarely at a loss for words, but this was definitely one of those times. “Half a litre? How much sex do they really expect us to have in one weekend?” Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was still naked, as was Gregory, but everything else was overcome with visions of what, exactly, they would need to do use up 500 mL of medical-grade personal lubricant. He wasn’t even sure he could conceive of it, actually, although Gregory certainly seemed like he’d be amenable to giving a few suggestions-

“Come here.” Gregory broke the seal and got the top off with some rather impressive dexterity, then lay back down until he was reclining on one elbow and had a palmful of lube in the other hand. When Mycroft was close enough, he reached out and casually smeared the lube down Mycroft’s cock, then his own.

“Hng.” Mycroft had to blink several times to bring his vision back to normal. When he looked back up, Gregory was grinning again, smug bordering on feral.

“We’re going to do it this way, the first time,” Gregory announced. “Not that I don’t want to have my wicked way with you later - or you with me; that works too - but this will probably be a bit less . . . overwhelming. Yeah?”

Mycroft swallowed and nodded. “What should I-”

“Just come here.” He tugged Mycroft by the hips until Mycroft was lying half-draped over him, their cocks slotted perfectly together, and _Christ_ did it feel amazing. Mycroft moaned quietly and thrust forward, just the tiniest amount. The sensory feedback against his skin had him seeing stars.

“I’ll let you set the pace,” Gregory murmured. “Here - give me your hand.” He carefully arranged Mycroft’s fingers around their combined cocks, then added his own slippery hand to encircle the other side. They were pressed together and Gregory’s skin was warm and _perfect_ and when Mycroft shifted his hips again, just nudging forward an inch or so, they both gasped. Mycroft struggled to say something, but he couldn’t summon up the words to even breathe Gregory’s name. He tried to communicate his appreciation instead by sliding their combined hands up and down with as close the perfect amount of pressure he could manage. Gregory’s head fell back and his mouth fell open. “Damn, that’s - _yes_.”

Mycroft knew he wasn’t going to last long. Lord, if this was the _less_ overwhelming option . . . He already couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t _focus._ Couldn't record all the details of Gregory’s arousal for later, so he could refine his approach for their next encounter like he’d intended to. Someone let out a choked whimper, and Mycroft honestly couldn’t tell whether it was from his own throat or not. He was so close-

“Come for me,” Gregory said quietly. “Let yourself go, Mycroft - I want to see you come all over my stomach. I want to feel you lose control like that. Please. Do it.” He snaked his other hand around to cover as much of Mycroft’s bare arse as he could, hitching him forward in a brutal counterpoint to the motion of their hands. The added touch - Gregory restraining his ability to pull away, hitching their pelvises closer together, tightening the pressure on their cocks - it was all suddenly too much and Mycroft heard himself actually crying out as he came.

“God, that’s it.” Gregory cupped his now-sticky hand over Mycroft’s and took over the up-and-down motion on his own cock with their combined hands. It didn’t take long at all. Mycroft was just blinking away the last of the involuntary muscle spasms when he was treated to the sight he’d been waiting for: Gregory gasping, eyes closed, mouth open, every muscle in his body tensed. And then - the full-body shudder as his own semen sputtered out to join Mycroft’s in the pool on his stomach.

Mycroft watched, frozen, until Gregory finally let out a long sigh and went boneless on the mattress below him. Gregory opened his eyes slowly, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

“Get down here, you git.” He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s torso - heedless of the messy palmprint he was leaving on Mycroft’s right shoulder blade - and tugged until Mycroft relented and let his weight fall however Gregory wanted it. Which turned out to be “pressing him into the bed,” apparently. “That was incredible,” Gregory murmured.

Mycroft just nodded assent.

***

They lay there, sticky and dozing, for what felt like hours but - once Mycroft was finally able to think properly again - was probably closer to forty-five minutes. Eventually Mycroft peeled himself off Gregory with a groan.

“Shower,” he murmured.

“You go first - I don’t want to move.”

“Right.”

Mycroft showered quickly and changed into khakis and a clean button-down - something more formal than fishing gear but less than his normal suits. Hopefully Gregory would approve. He spent an unnecessary ten minutes in front of the mirror in his own bedroom while Gregory was in the shower, trying to assess his appearance with a critical eye. No matter what he did, though, he still couldn’t shake the fact that he looked his age - older, even - and he was in no way near Gregory’s “league.” Especially not now that he knew what sort of musculature Gregory was hiding under those wrinkled polyester suits. Probably just as well he hadn’t known what Gregory looked like naked before, or he’d never have had the courage to say yes in the first place-

“Remind me to compliment whoever did the shopping,” Gregory announced from the doorway behind him. “These clothes feel amazing.”

Mycroft turned - and yes, Gregory did look fantastic. Again. Damn Anthea for finding the exact color shirt that would bring out the amber in his eyes.

“Guess we should clean up our mess from breakfast?” He shot Mycroft a wink - an honest-to-goodness _wink_ \- and headed down the hallway for the kitchen. He looked even better from the back. Mycroft swallowed hard and followed him.

Only to nearly run him over when Gregory froze suddenly in the kitchen doorway. Mycroft stopped just before they collided, stepping to the side instead to peer over Gregory’s shoulder-

Sherlock was seated calmly at the kitchen table, eyeing the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you in the US - 500 mL is the same size as those big bottles of mouthwash. It's a LOT.


	10. Chapter 10

There was no point in feigning surprise - Sherlock would have given his involvement away anyway, just out of spite. Gregory looked back and forth between him and Sherlock, and Mycroft could literally _see_ the moment he made the connection.

“You knew.” Gregory was watching Sherlock, but he spoke to Mycroft. “You knew he was alive.”

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted.

“You let me mourn him - fuck, you let _John_ mourn him. And you knew.”

“Don’t tell John,” Sherlock cut in. “It’s still not-”

“Shut up,” Gregory interrupted. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

It looked like Sherlock didn’t quite know what to make of that. This should have been Mycroft’s area - diplomacy, smoothing over uncomfortable incidents with just the right words to prevent ruffled feathers - but nothing seemed to be making its way from his brain to his mouth. He probably could have rattled off some instinctive series of phrases, a meaningless apology and a non-explanation and whatever else the situation would have warranted, but Gregory would have seen through that and rejected it and if that happened Mycroft would have been left entirely defenceless. Vulnerable. _Something_ needed to be said, explained, but Mycroft honestly had no idea what.

“Who else knows?” Gregory demanded. “Tell me - who else? Not John, obviously.”

“Not John,” Sherlock confirmed. “Nobody of importance.”

“Except Mycroft.”

 _“Nobody of importance,”_ Sherlock repeated. “I had to disappear in order to-”

“I honestly don’t bloody care.” Gregory _finally_ looked back at Mycroft, something hard and dangerous in his eyes. “Can I catch a cab from here, or do I need to get special permission from your minions first?”

“You - Gregory, please allow me to apologize-”

“No, really, don’t bother.” He turned and headed back toward the guest bedroom, leaving Mycroft to trail along helplessly behind him. “I don’t need to hear whatever plausible excuse you’ve concocted. I just need my shoes and my phone and then I’ll be out of your way and you and Sherlock can get on with saving the bloody world or whatever you think you’re doing.”

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s fingers itched with the urge to touch him. How, after a lifetime of celibacy and self-reliance, could one sexual encounter have changed so much? Gregory was angry - justifiably so - and all Mycroft wanted to do was to cling to him and selfishly soothe his own anxiety. Which Gregory obviously would not have tolerated, even if Mycroft _had_ tried to initiate physical contact. God, how could Sherlock have had this with John and then walk away from it? Mycroft found a bit of grudging respect for his brother’s dedication to duty. _Gregory’s no more than two meters away from me and this is still hell._

“I need space, Mycroft,” Gregory said without turning around. He bent to get his shoes out from under the bed, pocketed his phone, sat briefly on the chair near the wardrobe to put his shoes on. “You hide details about your job from me - that’s fine; I can respect that. It goes with the territory. But you damn well should have trusted me with this, and you didn’t. I don’t know where that leaves me.” He snorted. “Bloody well isn’t here, though.”

“I do trust you.” Mycroft was absolutely positive he’d never said those words to another human being, even to Sherlock, but Lestrade just grimaced and brushed past him back out the door.

“With your body, maybe. Not with anything else. Now seriously - will I give away our secret location if I call for a taxi, or do I need to walk into town or something first?”

 _He’s leaving._ Mycroft was torn - part of him wanted to catch up to Gregory, wrap his arms around the man’s torso, and _make_ him stay and listen. To browbeat him into acceptance, if not forgiveness. The more mature part was already retrieving his phone from his pocket. “Don’t walk - I’ll have Anthea take you back.”

“What, in that posh limo? Don’t trust me to know where we actually are?”

“I’ve already texted her,” Sherlock called from the kitchen. “She’s bringing ‘that posh limo’ around front for you. And it’s been so long since my brother actually drove himself anywhere, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s completely forgotten where we grew up anyway. We’re about half an hour north of Exeter - Mycroft’s minions should have you home in about three hours.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft growled, but stopped himself from saying anything truly cutting. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault Gregory was leaving. Gregory merely nodded once more in Sherlock’s direction - a curt dismissal if there ever was one - and went out to the drive to wait.

***

Mycroft knew he was giving away a thousand signals - a million signals - that he wanted to be running out there and begging Gregory to forgive him, but at the moment it was just too much effort to bother trying to hide them all. Sherlock, to his credit, didn’t go for the easy insult.

“He’s good for you,” Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft closed his eyes and nodded. _No point denying it._ “He’s a better man than I deserve.”

“Still think caring isn’t an advantage?”

How could it be? Sherlock had to be back for a reason, something major, something important enough to justify returning to England before Moriarty’s web was fully disentangled. And yet all Mycroft could concentrate on was the fact that Gregory was leaving and he wasn’t coming back. 

“Never thought I’d see you brought low by sentiment, brother.”

“How’s John?” Mycroft retorted. And immediately regretted it, seeing the very real look of pain on his younger brother’s face.

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock said softly. “I’m entrusting you to keep him safe while I’m . . . gone.”

“You’re not keeping up your own network?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I can’t risk it. I can’t risk _him.”_

Mycroft sucked in a breath. That was a big concession for his brother to make - and a very telling admission of fraternal trust, no matter what else lay between them. “He’s not particularly amenable to seeing me anymore, either,” Mycroft admitted. “But I’m keeping an eye on him.” _As much as I can from a distance, anyway._ “He’s using the cane again,” he added.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

There was a crunch of tyres on gravel in the driveway, then a subdued motor as Anthea and Gregory started back toward London. The engine noise faded away, leaving silence in its wake.

“Do you need a minute?” Sherlock asked. “I need both sleep and resources, but I’m flexible as to the order in which those two things occur.”

A minute wouldn’t be enough. Neither would an hour, a day, a week. Mycroft shook his head and pasted a tolerant smile on his face - his default expression for dealing with his younger brother. “I’m fine,” he said a shade too firmly. “What resources can this humble government servant offer?”


	11. Chapter 11

Mycroft spent the entire strategic session with his phone clutched in his hand. He hoped against all logic that it would vibrate, that Gregory would have had a change of heart and allow him to explain, but the phone stayed resolutely silent. No calls, no texts. Sherlock very pointedly didn’t insult Mycroft even once, which was as close to a show of brotherly sympathy as Mycroft could have expected. His gaze did stray once or twice to Mycroft’s white-knuckled grip, then skittered away.

“Do you think . . .” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Do you think John will react similarly? If I’m able to come back?”

Mycroft made a noncommittal noise.

“It’s not fair,” Sherlock said quietly. “I mean, I know we’re following the most reasonable course of action. They’ll have to realize that. But in the meantime . . .” He looked down at his lap, then back up to meet Mycroft’s eye. “Tell me it’s worth it, Myc. Please.”

God, that voice, that minute quaver . . . Mycroft forced a tremulous smile. “It’s worth it,” he echoed. “It has to be.”

***********

Gregory didn’t call that week. Mycroft left his Friday evening free, just in case, but ended up spending it alone in his living room watching rugby with the sound off and cursing himself for not having had a better contingency plan for when Gregory found out about Sherlock. It’s not like he couldn’t have predicted Gregory’s reaction - it was only human to feel betrayed, and Gregory was nothing if not refreshingly human. Mycroft didn’t even want to think about how John would react when he learned the truth.

 _It’s not the same, though._ Gregory had been through this - _thought_ he’d been through this - before, with his own brother. Probably felt a particular sense of camaraderie with Mycroft because of it. And now that he knew that not only was Sherlock alive, but Mycroft had known the whole time . . .

_Shit._

Mycroft turned off the rugby. He hadn’t been actually watching anyway. He needed to do _something_ \- something productive, something useful. He itched to call Gregory, to beg for another chance, but-

Actually, that wasn’t a terrible idea. Not the begging - Mycroft would have done it, if he’d have thought it had a chance of working, but Gregory was surely still too angry - but a simple text wouldn’t be too much, would it? Mycroft spent a solid twenty minutes composing something with the same concentration he used in penning arms de-escalation deals and secret military alliances, but all he ended up sending was

_Miss you. - M_

He spent another twenty minutes dumbly staring at his phone, daring it to ring.

It didn’t.

*************

Sometimes having an eidetic memory was more of a curse than a blessing. Mycroft woke up from a sheet-twisting dream at two o’clock in the morning, the smell of Gregory’s shampoo still lingering in his mind and the feel of his hands lingering hot on Mycroft’s skin. The only two options were to go take a shower or to masturbate while loathing himself for having ruined everything. Mycroft opted for the shower. A cold one.

He might as well get up - there was work to be done, anyway, and his bed was no longer a sanctuary.

************

_Charlie.txt_

Mycroft frowned at the email - it was blank, except for the attachment. The sender’s name, though, _RB110391@yahoo.com_ \- that was clearly Sherlock. There was no missing the Redbeard reference (a dig at Mycroft for having shared too much with Moriarty, perhaps?) and the date Redbeard had needed to be put down. Sherlock cycled through disposable email addresses constantly, depending on need, but he was practically religious about contacting Mycroft once per day. It was as close as he’d come to acknowledging that Mycroft truly did worry about him. He never outright gave assurance of his own safety, but he did occasionally give indications that he was thinking about Mycroft too. This appeared to be one of those times.

The text file was entirely in code, as were most of Sherlock’s missives, but after two months of practice Mycroft was able to read it at almost normal speed. He did - and then had to read it again, slower, as he took in the details.

Gregory’s brother Charlie had indeed been mixed up in selling drugs - pot and acid, just as Gregory had said way back when he and Mycroft had first started meeting in person. Sherlock’s carefully objective recitation of facts gave away nothing about why he had this information in the first place - had he known for years, or was he looking this up himself as an acknowledgement that Mycroft was hurting too? - but he was thorough. Painfully so.

There had been a rival dealer. Sherlock didn’t give a name, for which Mycroft was thankful - he’d have had to go seek the man out, if he’d known. The rival dealer apparently had issues with Charlie and the downstairs neighbor (creatively nicknamed “Knuckles”) partnering up and increasing competition. In a misguided attempt at intimidation, he’d threatened to kill Charlie’s younger brother Greg if Charlie didn’t steal Knuckles’ stash and turn it over to him, then get out of the business for good.

Sherlock offered no commentary and no details beyond that point, but the implication was clear: Charlie made a decision. Going along with the threat would have been suicide anyway, unless he murdered his friend to prevent retaliation, but refusing would have endangered Gregory as well. Charlie had taken the only way out he saw, killing himself and hoping it would make his rival leave his family alone. It must have worked, too - Knuckles turned up dead two weeks later, young Gregory grew up to join the Met all on his own, and presumably Gregory never learned the truth behind his brother’s suicide.

Sherlock didn’t sign with his name - he never did - but there was one more line at the bottom of the file.

_You’re worth loving, my brother. Show him he hasn’t lost you._

Mycroft closed his eyes and let out a long breath. This was going to be the most dangerous thing he’d ever done.

He picked up his phone and dialed.


	12. Chapter 12

“I thought it was clear,” Gregory said by way of greeting, “that I really don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“I know,” Mycroft admitted. “But I have something for you - information you should know.”

“Let me guess - if I don’t meet you for some ridiculously posh lunch you’ll kidnap me the way you always kept kidnapping John.”

“I . . .” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I’m sorry. That I wasn’t - that I couldn’t be honest with you earlier.”

There was the sound of a door opening and closing, then the echo of an enclosed space. The tiny janitorial closet at the Yard, judging from the acoustics. “I haven’t told anyone, you know,” Gregory said in a low voice. “So if you’re just trying to warn me off about that-”

“No, I know.” Mycroft had, at Anthea’s insistence, increased the monitoring around Gregory. So far there was nothing to indicate he had unduly altered his routine, or indeed done anything that might indicate he knew anything about Sherlock’s not-death. Which was appreciated, if not unexpected - he was a DI, after all, and they’d long ago come to some sort of truce about “work details which are supposed to be kept confidential.” Mycroft had years’ worth of experience with Gregory’s ability to keep a secret, even before starting their weekly chats. Now, though, when it really _mattered_ . . . “I wish I could have told you,” Mycroft admitted.

“I wish you had too.”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

“So,” Gregory said. “Was that the information you had for me?”

Mycroft closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, chin digging into his chest. Suddenly the pretext of _my not-dead brother was prying into your actually-dead brother’s death on my behalf_ didn’t sound like such a strategic move. Sherlock-level lack of empathy, more like. There _was_ nothing else, though. Nothing he could say to make his lie of omission better, nothing to make it less true. Less painful. “No,” Mycroft murmured. “It wasn’t. But I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“Okay then.” Gregory didn’t press, didn’t ask for more. “Mycroft . . . look.” It felt like he was trying to gather his words. “I’m not - I’m not saying _never,_ all right? I’m just saying I need some space. God knows I overlook plenty of other shit from you, and maybe someday I’ll be ready to deal with this too. But I’m not, right now, and I’m still rather spectacularly angry at you, and pressing me isn’t going to help.”

“I understand,” Mycroft said, because there was nothing else he could say.

“Thank you.” There was a faint scraping noise on Gregory’s end, something in the closet shifting as he moved. “I’ve - I’ve got to go, Mycroft. Just - don’t spy on me, don’t follow me, don’t call me. If and when I’m ready, I’ll call you.”

***

Two weeks later, Mycroft was taken aback to get an actual _phone call_ to his private mobile. Only a handful of people in the world knew his number, and none of them would have come up as “unlisted.” If Sherlock was actually _calling_ . . . Mycroft walked out of his meeting with the Prime Minister without explanation and locked himself in his office.

“We’ve got a mole,” Sherlock announced the moment Mycroft answered the phone. “Evacuate them, Mycroft. _Now.”_

Mycroft sat down. Hard. “Tell me.”

“Don’t know who.” Sherlock actually sounded frightened, one of only a handful of times in his life Mycroft had heard that tone from him. “There’s a significant probability the mole will put the pieces together at any moment, though, so there’s no time to lose. Use Anthea; she’s safe.”

“Clarkson and Forrester?”

Sherlock made a vague noise of agreement. “Those three, though - no others. I don’t care who else you think you can trust. How quickly can you pick up the primary targets?”

It still felt odd to think of John and Gregory and Mrs. Hudson as “targets,” but names - even on a secured line - were an unnecessary indulgence. And risk. “Twenty minutes for the two males. The female is with her sister in Leeds this weekend, however.”

“Take the sister too.” Sherlock paused, suddenly tentative. “Mycroft - this is going to be it, you realize.”

He didn’t have to explain what _it_ meant. John and Mrs. Hudson still didn’t know Sherlock was alive - _it_ was going to be the shoe dropping, the bomb going off in John Watson’s sterile stasis of a life. The tear-filled (or anger-filled, or joy-filled) reunion. The point Sherlock could no longer pretend he didn’t believe in sentiment, didn’t love his flatmate enough to jump off a roof for him. The point where John would realize Sherlock would truly do _anything_ to keep him safe. Whether John would reject the role of “damsel in (unknowing) distress” was a point Sherlock had ranted on endlessly over the course of the past few months. He still hadn’t come to a definitive conclusion.

John angry, Gregory furious, Sherlock surly, and Mrs. Hudson trying to ensure they all behaved - it sounded like hell on earth. Mycroft was rather relieved he would be needed elsewhere. Although, on that note . . . “Where?”

Sherlock paused, longer than Mycroft expected. “You have a place,” he finally said. “Six months of my life there - if I couldn’t get out, Moriarty’s men can’t get in.”

 _The island._ The one rehab that had stuck. Sherlock had broken out of half a dozen expensive and highly-rated facilities before Mycroft finally kidnapped his younger brother and left him on the uninhabited island, miles from the Scottish coast. It had truly taken nearly six months for Sherlock to detox completely and to come back to himself - he’d spent most of the first month systematically dismantling all the hidden cameras he could find, one at a time, but after the initial withdrawal symptoms were over he’d mellowed considerably. To the point he tolerated Anthea’s occasional company, sometimes. That was the first of the many times Anthea had proved herself an invaluable PA. At the end of the six months Sherlock had wordlessly allowed her to escort him to a helicopter and back to London and had never again fallen quite as low as he’d been before Mycroft stole him away. The island wasn’t technically Mycroft’s - it was a nebulous holding of Her Majesty’s government, used for occasional military training maneuvers and even more occasional “individuals of interest” who were too politically explosive to hide away in the normal manner- but at the moment it was vacant. And since Mycroft was the one nominally tasked with ensuring it stayed that way, there was no problem with adding a few inhabitants for a while.

“That will work,” Mycroft said slowly. “Where shall I have Anthea gather you?”

“I’m here already.”

Mycroft didn’t ask how.

“I succeeded in stocking provisions,” Sherlock continued. “I haven’t entered the facility yet - I assume that’s monitored even when empty - but I’ll find you when you get here.”

“Not me,” Mycroft corrected. “If you want to root out the mole, I’ll be of more use behind my own desk. But I will have the _targets_ delivered to you shortly.”

Sherlock hummed, low in his throat, the nearest he ever came to a _thank you._ “See that you do.”

***

Anthea was, as usual, shockingly efficient. Nineteen minutes and forty-five seconds after Mycroft briefed her on the situation, she was back in his office with a verbal report. John Watson and DI Lestrade were safely in the backseats of two nondescript black cars (driven by Clarkson and Forrester, respectively) and en route to the airstrip. Martha Hudson and her sister Eugenia Sissons (sixty-four, never married, career waitress and barmaid) had been located at a small restaurant in downtown Leeds and she was headed to go to collect them herself as soon as she finished. Mycroft received the news with more than a little relief.

“You are a marvel,” he told her sincerely. “You have both my gratitude and my thanks.”

Anthea smiled at him, a bit more tentative than she usually allowed him to see. _Embarrassed? Concerned?_ She cleared her throat. “Your trust, too, I hope?”

 _Beyond question._ Mycroft was mildly surprised to realize he actually _could_ name all the people on the very short list to whom he could answer “yes” in conjunction with that topic. His parents, Anthea, Gregory, and (in most respects) Sherlock. “Without a doubt,” he assured her.

“Good.” Her smile turned a bit grim at the edges, and she apologized with her eyes as she darted across the space between them and plunged the needle into his neck.


	13. Chapter 13

Years of training had Mycroft freezing and feigning sleep the moment he realized he was waking up in an unfamiliar location. He carefully kept his eyes shut and maintained slow, deep breaths as he stretched out his other senses. The noise and motion around him suggested a vehicle, but not a car. Something large enough for him to be lying down comfortably-

He snapped his eyes open. _Boat. The island. Anthea._

“Knew you’d wake up eventually.” Sherlock’s voice drifted down from the deck, distorted by the hum of the motor in the background. “Please do try not to be seasick on the bunk; you don’t have minions around so you’d have to clean it up yourself.”

“Ugh.” Mycroft permitted himself one long groan and a two-handed scrub over his face, then forced himself to sit up and take stock of the small cabin. “Was kidnapping me really necessary?”

“John will appreciate the irony.”

Mycroft gritted his teeth, partly in frustration and partly to keep the threatening nausea at bay. The rolling of the boat was doing nothing to help the last of the drugs out of his system. “Where are the others?”

“Already arrived via helicopter - Anthea thought it best we remove you from Moriarty’s reach before you awoke. Something about you not having the self-preservation to come voluntarily.”

“You had this planned out ahead of time.” The _you’re not one to talk_ went unsaid.

“As a contingency, yes.” Sherlock glanced down at him through the open door, then returned his gaze to the water ahead of them. “Your assistant knows you incredibly well, I’ll admit. She improved on my initial scenario considerably.”

 _Of course she did._ Mycroft didn’t even have the energy to be angry at how efficiently she’d manipulated him. He sighed instead. “Fill me in.”

“Clarkson drove you straight up here to the coast. He’s remaining on the mainland side to maintain communications as necessary. Anthea and Forrester took John and Lestrade in the helicopter to Leeds to pick up Mrs. Hudson and her sister, then came here. They’ve been on the island for about two hours at this point. I’ve been in town waiting for you.”

“And I’ve been unconscious for . . .” Mycroft did some quick mental math based on driving distances. “. . . four and a half hours?”

“Approximately.”

“And they haven’t yet been briefed on the reason for their sudden relocation, I presume.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but his expression did acquire that tight look he often sported when Mycroft asked him about John these days. _That’s a no, then._

“What _were_ they told?”

“I’m sure they’ll guess,” Sherlock sniffed. “They could hardly fail to recognize your staff.”

Right. So Gregory would probably be ready to kill him. Because Mycroft wasn’t capable of being in Gregory’s life without messing it up.

“Anthea did pack your work laptop,” Sherlock announced casually. “It’s waiting for you at the facility. Whoever the mole is must be sweating right now.”

“Because I disappeared?”

“Because his or her job wasn’t finished yet.” Sherlock lifted his chin up infinitesimally higher, a throwback to his childhood stubborn streak. “If this all goes as I intend, that job will stay unfinished.”

“I see.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “A significant amount of the information I’ve been uncovering echoed your own acquired intelligence, but a few days ago I discovered a trove of video footage of you. Not from publicly-owned cameras or private feeds with unreliable security systems, but video taken by your own security team. Clearly without your permission or knowledge.”

“How did you-” Mycroft broke off and felt the beginnings of a blush heat his face. _“Oh.”_

“I assumed you wouldn’t masturbate quite so openly in that fashion if you knew you were being filmed, yes.”

 _Hell._ Masturbation was just about the only thing Mycroft _could_ do these days, with Gregory gone but those exquisite memories remaining, but that didn’t mean he wanted his little brother to see him do it. “I appreciate your discretion.”

Sherlock shot him a _don’t be stupid_ look. “Vanity, brother?”

“I just - I don’t want Gregory to feel uncomfortable. I have been trying to honor his wishes.”

“Now I know you’re infatuated,” Sherlock said. “When have you ever taken someone else’s emotions into account?”

“I’m not-”

“You’re in love with the man.” Sherlock glanced down again, eyes unerringly finding Mycroft’s in the dimly-lit cabin. “I know because I feel the same for John. And now neither of us are guaranteed to get what we want, and both of us are terrible at that.”

It was true. There was nothing more Mycroft could say, so he didn’t.

***

The island consisted of about a dozen acres of grass, a few stands of stunted trees, several rocky outcroppings, and five sea-facing caves of various sizes. The British government had planted a squat concrete building precisely in the center sometime in the 1960s and although Mycroft ensured the facility was kept in good repair, the structure wasn’t beautiful by any definition of the word. The island’s primary advantages were its distance from its neighbors and its out-of-the-way location - both of which ensured they would have complete privacy for the duration of their tenure. Unlike Sherlock’s first visit, though, this time they had both the helicopter and the boat available. Mycroft sincerely hoped the situation wouldn’t devolve into Gregory and John saying _“fuck it”_ and fleeing the island by themselves.

He was feeling recovered enough to walk almost normally by the time they reached the dock and found Anthea waiting for them. She and Sherlock made short work of securing the ropes ( _new skill for him,_ Mycroft noted; Sherlock must have needed nautical knowledge at some point since his “death” and disappearance) and all too soon she was leading both Holmes brothers up the path toward the building. Mycroft had been to the island several times since his initial appointment as its governmental guardian, but never before had the facility inspired so much trepidation.

“How are they?” Sherlock asked aloud, voicing Mycroft’s question for him.

Anthea shrugged. “I believe Detective Inspector Lestrade has broken the news about the misdirection surrounding your death. Forrester assures me no one is injured.”

 _Not exactly reassuring._ Gregory might have saved Sherlock a painful confession - or he might have just damned him to John’s accrued anger. It was impossible to predict with John. Which was probably part of why Sherlock was so enamored with the man. _As if I’m one to talk._ Part of Mycroft expected Gregory to have worked everything out before Sherlock even stepped in the door.

The interior of the facility was worryingly quiet as they entered from the upper terrace. The building had two levels, plopped blandly one on top of the other, one above ground and one underneath it. The upper level was clearly empty. Both Mycroft and Sherlock paused to take a fortifying breath before continuing down to the sleeping quarters below.

 _“You. Arse.”_ Mycroft was behind Sherlock as they descended the stairs and therefore couldn’t actually see John, but he did catch his brother on reflex as Sherlock was propelled backward by the force of John’s punch. Sherlock hadn’t expected it either, judging by the rigidity in his posture as he stumbled and flailed for the handrail.

“John,” Sherlock wheezed.

“You were DEAD!” Now that Mycroft actually had a line of sight to the doctor, he could see the man literally quivering with outrage. “You bloody well MADE ME WATCH YOU DIE. How could you do that, Sherlock? How?”

“Please, John - I had to.” Sherlock didn’t bother standing back up, just curled up right there on the bottom stair, so Mycroft carefully skirted around him and emerged into the barracks-style living quarters. Where he was confronted with a wide-eyed Mrs. Hudson, a shocked sister, a glowering Gregory, and Forrester sitting on one of the bunks off to the side and trying very hard to look like he didn’t notice anything amiss. No amount of professional dignity and aplomb would have been sufficient to maintain a disaffected mien, so Mycroft didn’t even try.

“Gregory.”

Gregory nodded stiffly, the scowl not fading from his face. “Mycroft.”

“Can we . . .” Mycroft gestured vaguely to the door at the other end of the room. “I know you didn’t want to see me again, but we appear to be stuck here for the time being. A conversation would be prudent.”

Gregory seemed to slump a bit at that, sadness filling his features. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess we’d better.” He curled his hands into fists, then relaxed and let out a sigh. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

John was back to yelling, flailing in his anger, but Mycroft and Gregory slipped out of the room and down the hall to the much smaller private quarters at the end of the hall. Forrester was more than capable of ensuring neither John or Sherlock got hurt, and Mycroft had no wish for an audience.


	14. Chapter 14

“So.” Gregory crossed his arms and glared Mycroft down. “I can tell why John’s here, some messed-up little reunion, but what do you need with me?”

“I’m . . . sorry you’ve been inconvenienced,” Mycroft said slowly, choosing his words with care. “As much as I was trying to respect your wish to be left alone, current circumstances required me to meddle in your life once again. And for that, I do sincerely apologize.”

Gregory cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes. “Define ‘circumstances.’”

Mycroft sucked in a long, fortifying breath. Odd, how negotiations which literally stopped or started wars never gave him butterflies in his stomach, but this conversation did. “I never did tell you why Sherlock faked his death,” he said.

“Would have been a bit hard, since you apparently wanted me to believe he was still dead.”

Mycroft managed not to flinch. “Moriarty had a rather elaborate trap for him,” he continued evenly. “Intent to not only kill him, but to discredit his work. The second-most-important thing Sherlock held dear.”

Gregory cocked his head slightly. “Second-most?”

“First was you.” Mycroft couldn’t even meet his eyes. “John, Mrs. Hudson, and you. Three snipers, three bullets. Unless Sherlock declared himself a fraud and jumped.”

“Jesus.” Gregory sank down onto the bed behind him, blinking heavily. “How could he possibly have been sure he’d survive a fall from that height?”

“He wasn’t.” Mycroft sat, too, mostly because his legs were suddenly feeling unreliable. He left a good three feet of space between them. “There was a contingency plan and some sleight-of-hand involved, but mostly . . . he considered it a risk worth taking. Moriarty killed himself on that rooftop to prevent Sherlock from being able to talk his way out. If the assassins had known he survived, they had orders to fulfil their contracts no matter what.”

Gregory closed his eyes for several seconds. “Fucking plonker,” he finally muttered.

“I assure you-”

“Not you.” He sighed. “All that talk about ‘caring is not an advantage,’ and he goes and fucking KILLS himself without us even knowing why.”

“I . . . may have had something to do with that particular aphorism,” Mycroft admitted. “It’s one I lived by for a long time.”

“Not anymore?” Gregory held Mycroft’s gaze, refusing to let him look away.

 _Never again._ Even with all the pain of the last several weeks, Mycroft wouldn’t have given up those shining moments of Gregory _caring_ at him for all the power in the world. The memories would keep forever. Always a bit bittersweet, but worth savoring all the same. “I was wrong,” Mycroft conceded. “Sherlock had John - he knew. I refused to see. And I . . . I was wrong.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You.” Mycroft dropped his gaze. Gregory was too raw, too large in his senses to look at directly. Like staring into the sun. “I had never - I’d never felt like that before. Like I didn’t have to _earn_ something with you. You just . . . gave it. I’ve never been needed in that way.”

Gregory snorted. “You bloody well run half of England. Everyone _needs_ you.”

Mycroft shook his head. “They value what I can do. What I accomplish. You’re the first one to want _me_ since Sherlock was small. I know you’re angry, and you may yet find me keeping this particular situation from you to be unforgivable, but I . . . wanted you to know that.” He winced. “I hope you do understand that I don’t make such confessions lightly. Almost never, as a matter of fact. After we resolve the current dilemma and go our separate ways, I would hope you don’t think ill of me for my weakness.”

“Your . . .” Gregory sighed. “Mycroft. Emotions are not a weakness.”

“They lead to tactical errors.”

“Which I have every confidence in you identifying and overcoming.” Gregory sat on the edge of the bed again, leaning forward at a rather ridiculous angle to put his face back in Mycroft’s field of view. He offered a hint of a smile, which was enough to start Mycroft’s gut roiling anew. “I’m pissed that you didn’t tell me about Sherlock, yes, but you’re being honest with me and that does help. I get the impression that you don’t get to indulge in honesty with very many people.”

It was true. Mycroft merely nodded.

“So then.” Gregory gestured toward the other end of the bed, indicating for Mycroft to sit. “Tell me about this ‘current dilemma.’”

***

Mycroft shared what information he could. Which was painfully little, unfortunately. He gave Gregory an abridged account of Sherlock’s recent whereabouts, the disentangling of Moriarty’s web, Sherlock’s panicked phone call, and Anthea’s duplicity. Gregory listened to it all without expression, just nodding and prompting for more when there was something he wanted clarified. Mycroft didn’t look at his watch, but he could sense they’d been at it for quite a while when there was a knock at the door.

“Hoohoo!” Mrs. Hudson poked her head in, a mothering expression affixed firmly to her face. “You boys haven’t been yelling anywhere near as much as Sherlock and John - I assume everything’s alright?”

“We’re fine, Mrs. Hudson,” Gregory answered. “Thank you.”

“Well then.” She opened the door the rest of the way. “Eugenia and I have thrown together a little something for supper - nothing fancy, mind, but it was a rather long trip today and heaven knows Sherlock probably hasn’t eaten since last week, the silly boy. His idea of stocking a pantry is a bit odd, but we’ll do alright for now. Coming upstairs?”

Mycroft looked at Gregory, who looked back at him and shrugged. There wasn’t really anything more either of them could do at the moment without further data, anyway. And Mycroft realized he was quite hungry. “Thank you; we’ll be right up.”

Gregory smiled and nodded in agreement, but didn’t move. He waited until after Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps had receded before levering himself up off the bed with a creak and - surprisingly - offering a hand to Mycroft. “Eat first,” he declared. “Then we can all have that strategic session I know you’re so anxious to dive into.” 

Mycroft let himself be tugged to his feet, expecting Gregory to let go the moment he was vertical, but Gregory did the utterly expected once again and drew Mycroft into a full-body hug.

“I missed you,” Gregory whispered into the silence. “I did need my space, and I _am_ still angry, but . . . I missed you.”


	15. Chapter 15

It didn’t take a man of Holmesian perceptive abilities to notice John and Sherlock were still not on amicable terms when they finally came up for supper. The facility was designed with military and diplomatic requirements in mind, not civilian, so the only table large enough to seat everyone without hauling the mess-hall-style folding tables out of storage was in the strategy room. The buzzing fluorescent lights, whiteboards lining two walls, and mass of humming computer equipment at one end of the room didn’t exactly scream _fine dining,_ but Mycroft suspected he was the only one who might have cared. John and Sherlock sat at opposite ends of the conference table and all but glared at each other. Gregory was across from Mycroft and currently attempting to make small talk with Anthea while she replied with short, noncommittal answers. Mrs. Hudson, her sister, and - surprisingly - Forrester bustled back and forth with plates and dishes. Clearly Mrs. Hudson had a near-supernatural ability to form edible food out of whatever-it-was Sherlock had thought constituted pantry staples. Mycroft found himself relieved the refrigerator hadn’t been filled with discarded human body parts instead. It sounded like something Sherlock would do.

“So,” Gregory said, facing Anthea, his chin on his hand. “How’d a quiet little demure thing like you end up working for someone like Mycroft?”

Mycroft suspected he was the only one present attuned enough to her nonverbal cues to notice her amusement.

“I applied, of course,” she responded primly. “Mr. Holmes interviewed me and offered me the position.”

Sherlock huffed. “She’s failing to mention her ‘interview’ involved preventing one assassination, assuring another, and toppling a minor government. Oh, and figuring out what flavor cake my brother likes best. It’s lemon, by the way.”

Forrester raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? I just had a background check and was then kidnapped and dragged to an abandoned factory for an interview.”

John and Gregory exchanged a look.

“In more pressing matters,” Anthea announced, ignoring Forrester’s comment completely, “Clarkson has reported an uptick in the encrypted messages we believe were being used to monitor your movements. Obviously your disappearance has been noted by several individuals and agencies, but we were not followed.” She nodded toward the bank of monitors topping the jumble of electronic equipment in the corner, all of which were showing no activity from the security cameras. “Live video feed on the left, looped - and empty - feed on the right. We should assume that whoever is surveilling Mr. Holmes has access to the video footage, so we’re broadcasting an empty island.”

“Any leads?” John asked. “I mean, could it be Moriarty?”

“Moriarty is dead,” Sherlock said flatly. “I saw him commit suicide right in front of me.”

“Funny, I could say something similar about you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John-”

“Enough,” Gregory groaned. “I get it. John, you’re pissed at Sherlock. I’m pissed at Sherlock and Mycroft both. Sherlock, you’re being a dick. Anthea could be plotting to kill us all and we’d never know because she never gives anything away like that, but I’m going to assume she’s pissed at Sherlock too because that seems to be the natural order of things when Sherlock’s around. And Forrester is-”

“-Hungry,” Forrester finished for him. “These rolls smell divine and I haven’t eaten since ten this morning. Pardon my bluntness, sir-” he nodded at Mycroft “-but can we enjoy the lovely meal Eugenia and Martha have graced us with before we resume killing each other?”

Mycroft was fairly certain he’d just heard Forrester speak more in the last five minutes than he’d heard from the man over the course of his several years of employment, but the informality of the setting made it hard to take offense. Mrs. Hudson was absolutely beaming with joy at the compliment. Mycroft sighed, passed Gregory the nearest platter, and focused on keeping his mouth shut.

***

Living at Baker Street might actually be worth dealing with Sherlock, Mycroft mused, if it meant enjoying Mrs. Hudson’s creations more often. She and her sister “made do” with a chicken and pasta bake, made-from-scratch rolls, a mixed vegetable dish, and an absolutely divine chocolate pudding. Presumably all from memory, since Sherlock would have never even considered including something so mundane as a recipe book in his provisions. And clearly they didn’t need one - even Sherlock ate heartily. By the time everyone had eaten their fill, tempers had mostly cooled.

“So.” John leaned back and rested his crossed his arms across his stomach. “Now that we’ve gotten the initial yelling out of the way . . . what’s next? Strategy session?”

“What little there is to strategize,” Sherlock said. “I was able to trace the likely source of information to someone in Mycroft’s security detail, but there didn’t seem to be a pattern to the data. I assumed assassination, but . . .”

“. . . But we must assume whoever-it-is has had ample time to kill me already, if he or she is in my employ,” Mycroft finished for him. “And has opted not to do so. Therefore their objective must either be more easily met with me alive, or they must not have achieved their ultimate goal.”

Gregory cleared his throat. “Or - just thinking aloud here - they might not be watching you.”

Sherlock made a dismissive noise. “I assure you, the surveillance-”

“-could be for Anthea,” Gregory said, completely plowing over whatever else Sherlock had intended to say. “Or maybe they assume Mycroft can lead them to someone. Or they merely want to be ‘in the room,’ as it were, when certain world-altering decisions are being made. Or whatever the hell it is you do.” He leveled a sharp look at Mycroft. “Point is, you’re _here_ and they’re _there_ and that’s got to be sending someone into conniptions. Bit hard to assess that while we’re hiding out in the middle of nowhere, though.”

“Safer, though,” Sherlock said. “My brother refuses to acknowledge that he’s not in the ‘field work’ shape he used to be.”

Gregory gave Mycroft a deliberate smouldering look. “I can attest to what shape, exactly, your brother is in, but I suspect that might be off-topic.”

 _Oh lord._ Mycroft had to actually remind himself not to let his jaw hang open at the blatant comment. Sherlock looked like he’d just swallowed a bug.

“Actually . . .” Anthea stood and began sketching a rough map of the British Isles on the whiteboard behind her. “If the relationship issues between you and Mr. Holmes are satisfactorily resolved at this point, it may not be so off-topic after all. We lack data about the person or persons gathering information on Mr. Holmes, but the matter will be resolved more quickly if we can prompt some action from the other party.”

Everyone else except Sherlock was blinking, trying to follow her logic, but Sherlock met Mycroft’s gaze across the table and flashed a quick eye roll. Annoyed at the necessity of the ruse, then, but not objecting. Mycroft cleared his throat.

“I believe the proposal is for Gregory and me to set a trap,” he explained.

Gregory sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “What kind?”

Anthea actually grinned. “A romantic getaway, of course. Why else would Mycroft Holmes abruptly disappear, telling no one except me and two trusted agents? Obviously he’s taking you to a secret rendezvous somewhere more conducive to a clandestine gay relationship than central London is.”

Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson all swiveled to stare at Mycroft, then Gregory. Who pinkened a bit, but refused to take his eyes off Mycroft’s face.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that Mycroft and I need to talk a bit more. Do excuse us, will you?”

 _Shit._ Mycroft couldn’t quite hide the tremble in his hand as he stood and followed Gregory from the room.


	16. Chapter 16

“This probably means you’ll have to come out, you know,” Gregory announced flatly. “As will I.”

Mycroft nodded. The timing wasn’t ideal - he always assumed if he ever came out as homosexual, it would be with a committed partner at his side - but it was better than being outed by a political cohort as blackmail fodder. The potential fallout was part of the reason he’d never felt comfortable seeking out temporary companionship. For Gregory, though, Mycroft was beginning to realize there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do. He cleared his throat. “Will that be a problem for you? Officially or not?”

Gregory shrugged. “I expect news of me being bisexual would raise a few eyebrows, but I’ve been on the force long enough nobody will say anything to my face. And I believe I can count on my team to stand by me if there’s a problem.” He leveled Mycroft an inscrutable look. “You?”

“It’s . . . less unthinkable with you here,” Mycroft admitted.

“Oi, don’t,” Gregory said immediately. “Don’t you bloody well dare. I’m not as loud as John is, but that doesn’t mean everything is back to how it was before. I’ll see this through because I owe you that much, but we’re going to be _pretending_. Don’t mistake my actions while undercover for complete forgiveness.”

It was more than he deserved. Mycroft nodded and let Gregory lead the way back to the strategy room.

***

They settled on a small town in Cornwall. Gregory chose it - somewhere he’d been as a boy and wanted to see again. He then was pressed into spending most of the next two days answering ridiculously detailed questions about the area, mostly from Sherlock, while the operation was assembled. Anthea unequivocally barred Mycroft from the discussions.

“You’re too close,” she declared. “We don’t know who’s been watching you, but they’ve had ample time to learn your habits and preferences. All your people, your usual channels . . . we don’t know what’s safe. You happen to have a suitable substitute team-”

“More than suitable, I should think,” Sherlock called from the other room.

“-and there’s no reason not to take tactical advantage.”

The worst part was, she was right. Gregory knew the Cornwall town surprisingly well for someone who spent only two months there, thirty years ago - spent the entire summer roaming the countryside and getting into trouble, most likely. John was a surprisingly good tactician, which meant he and Anthea rather pushed Mycroft out of his usual role. And Sherlock . . . was Sherlock. He called in favors from people Mycroft had never heard of, spent a lot of time in a strop because John still wasn’t speaking to him outside necessary strategy sessions, and generally sulked his way through the moment when Gregory and Mycroft were boarding the helicopter. He only reluctantly allowed a handshake from Gregory because John gave him a stink-eye for not stepping forward.

“Apologize to him,” Gregory said quietly, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. “Forgiveness is hard, believe me, but . . . apologize.”

Sherlock smirked, as was his usual, but his eyes were sad. “Noted.”

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged nods, and then they were off.

***

The car stopped several hours later in front of a cottage with a weathered roof and a large garden. Gregory pointedly squeezed Mycroft’s hand and gave him a soppy grin in full view of the driver before letting the two of them inside. He waited for the driver to drop their luggage off inside the door before letting Mycroft’s hand go.

“So,” Gregory declared once they were alone. “We’re desperately in lust with each other and you felt it necessary to get us away from your usual security team for a few days. In your eagerness to get off with your new boyfriend, you chose to rent a holiday cottage under an alias you’ve used before. You’re not stupid, though, and you’re aware there may still be danger. What do you do?”

Mycroft did know the general outline of the plan, but not the specifics. It was tremendously irritating to not have all the data. Which was what Gregory was feeling ninety percent of the time Sherlock was around, no doubt. Mycroft cleared his throat. “Sweep the cottage and the grounds for surveillance, make a note of potential areas of entry, then drag you to whichever bed is nearest at the time.”

Gregory nodded, as if this was exactly what he expected. “Want me to walk with you, or should we split up? Or - I suppose I wouldn’t be much help in actually searching. I could unpack, maybe. Sherlock did check this floor for you this morning but of course you’re welcome to reassure yourself.”

Mycroft spent nearly an hour of searching every vent, baseboard, and decoration in the house and turned up precisely nothing. He was limited to what he could uncover without his usual tools, but Sherlock presumably had had no such restrictions. Gregory unpacked the two travel-sized suitcases Anthea had provided for them - into the same guest room, Mycroft noted - and joined in the search. By unspoken accord, they turned their attention to the back garden next. Gregory slipped his hand into Mycroft’s as they went out the porch door.

“Sherlock said we’ll probably be watched out here,” he murmured, leaning in close to Mycroft’s ear in a flirtatious gesture which coincidentally hid the movement of his lips from prying eyes. “Maybe not now, but soon.”

Mycroft forced himself to smile in response, as if Gregory had just said something witty. “We’ve got a few days,” he answered. “Surely we’re in the clear for the time being.”

“Mmmmm.” Gregory ducked to nuzzle Mycroft’s shoulder, raising all the hairs on the back of Mycroft’s neck. “Might take a day or two for whoever-it-is to catch up to us. Sherlock and John felt it important we not be _too_ blatant, though. It’d be suspicious if you suddenly gave up security entirely.”

“Inside, then? Now that I’ve satisfied myself we’re safe?”

Gregory slung an arm around Mycroft’s shoulder and pulled him for a long, slow kiss. “Good show for the bad guys,” he murmured. “Look like you want me to take you inside and ravish you.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and let Gregory seduce him through the kiss. Surrender was bittersweet. It didn’t take much acting.

The change in Gregory’s demeanor once they were inside was jarring, though. There was no ravishing. Instead they spent the afternoon and evening in near-silence, sharing a simple meal from the well-stocked pantry and then retiring to opposite sides of the sitting room with the drapes firmly closed. Gregory read a book; Mycroft read reports. Getting ready for bed took a bit of jostling, working around each other in the small bathroom and the over-decorated master bedroom, but it was all polite and impersonal and very, very stilted. Mycroft fell asleep in the small hours of the morning, his back to with Gregory, but with the vast emptiness of the large bed between them.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning tag at the bottom to avoid spoilers. (Not sexual, though.)

After three days, Mycroft accepted that he legitimately might have been losing his mind. Even in his past life, working missions undercover, he usually still found at least a few minutes in which to compose his thoughts. Now he had to play the lovestruck partner when outside the cottage and the stuffily impersonal professional while inside it and everything felt horrifically backwards. Gregory seemed to have no problem doing the same, though, so Mycroft gritted his teeth and tried to pretend it was all fine.

The worst part was, Mycroft could _see_ it. Could imagine vividly what this getaway could have been like if circumstances had been different. He’d do only the minimum work necessary, would cook for the both of them and surprise Gregory with his favorites at every meal, and they’d spend a lot more time in bed. Or - he admitted - possibly a similar amount of time in bed, but otherwise occupied.

“Whatever you’re worried about, stop it,” Gregory mumbled. They had their backs to each other and were on extreme opposite sides of the mattress, as had become their routine, but the first hints of daylight were working their way through the curtains and Mycroft knew exactly what Gregory would look like in that moment. Hair mussed, eyes still closed, salt-and-pepper stubble covering his jaw. He’d taken to wearing t-shirts and pajama trousers to bed, which was no doubt Anthea’s addition to their luggage, but in Mycroft’s imagination they were both nude and Gregory’s skin was tantalizing in the golden light of dawn. Mycroft huffed and rolled to his back.

Gregory groaned. “I can hear your annoyance from here.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He rolled over, blinking sleepily up at Mycroft. “Go make yourself a cup of coffee and take it out on the other world leaders or something. Seriously. I don’t like this any more than you do but your gloominess is keeping me awake.”

Of course. Because as much as Mycroft was a prisoner of the situation, Gregory had it ten times worse. Mycroft went.

***

“Mycroft. _Mycroft._ ”

The world smelled like Gregory. Mycroft inhaled deeply and pressed his cheek closer against the cool fabric of Gregory’s shirt. “Smell so nice,” Mycroft sighed.

“Don’t you dare go to sleep on me. _Mycroft!_ ”

Mycroft blinked himself the rest of the way awake but didn’t move. He was lying on the sitting room floor, half draped over Gregory’s lap, and Gregory was wet. “You’re wet.” He hummed. “And cool. Feels good.”

“It’s drizzling outside, and you’re burning up.” Gregory kept an arm around Mycroft’s torso even as he punched numbers into his mobile. “Stay here with me, yeah?”

Why would he go anywhere else? Mycroft took another long lungful of Gregory’s scent. Soap and fabric softener and a hint of sweat and it was hard to sort it all into words in his head, but he wanted to lock this smell away to remember later. His mind was completely, blissfully blank of anything except Gregory, and Mycroft couldn’t remember ever feeling better.

“John.” Gregory practically barked it. _Ah. Mobile. Call._ “It’s - yes. About ten minutes ago, I think. No.” He was quiet a moment. “Look, this is a hunch, but tell Sherlock you need his birthday list. _Now._ He’ll know what I mean. ” He twisted his head to look down and meet Mycroft’s gaze. “You’re going to have to talk me through what to do with him.”

 _Birthday list?_ Sherlock hated birthdays. He would have deleted the knowledge of his own birthdate, if he could. He never requested presents because he never got any. Mycroft must have made a confused noise, because Gregory reached down and squeezed his hand and just like that, Mycroft forgot whatever it was he’d been about to say. There was some indistinct yelling coming from the phone. The few words Mycroft could make out were expletives.

“Can you put me on speaker?” Gregory was still squeezing Mycroft’s hand, little rhythmic pulses, and Mycroft sighed in contentment. “No, both of you,” Gregory said, less shouty this time. “Sherlock, that birthday. However many years ago it was - you remember what you took? Yes, I damn well recognize this. You went all mellow housecat and it scared the hell out of me. ‘Totally cleared your mind,’ I think you said. I’ve seen enough damn drug addicts to know what it’s supposed to look like, and this isn’t it. Give John the list.”

Oh. _That_ list. Mycroft hummed a bit into Gregory’s chest. “M’brother’s clean now,” he mumbled.

“I know.” Gregory ducked down and pressed a worried kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head, the sensation melting down over Mycroft’s scalp like the first spray of a warm shower. He didn’t even seem to realize he’d done it. “You’re damn lucky his little concoctions were so memorable, though, because otherwise I’d be panicking and you’d be on your way to hospital and there’d be no way to cover this up. He really is a good chemist, much as it pains me to say it.”

Mycroft stiffened and pulled away. “Can’t go to hospital.”

“I figured - Sherlock said the same, way back when. What the hell were you doing outside, anyway?”

He’d been out because . . . Mycroft frowned. “I don’t remember.”

“Found you lying at the end of the drive with a needle in your arm. Getting rained on. I heard a car, but didn’t see anyone. Damn lucky you had your umbrella - you didn’t tell me Anthea re-wired your panic button to my phone until the alarm went off and scared the shit out of me.”

“Didn’t know.” Trying to remember the morning so far was dangerously like _thinking,_ which hurt. Mycroft’s brain also felt like it could only hold one thing at a time, and Gregory was a much more interesting topic. “Want you to hold me,” Mycroft found himself saying.

Gregory huffed out a little resigned sigh, but he shifted them both so he was sitting with his back propped against the sofa and Mycroft could curl up in his lap. Mycroft’s limbs felt strangely lethargic. The new position meant he could bury his nose in Gregory’s neck, though, where the morning stubble ended and the collar of the t-shirt began. “Don’t want to overheat you,” Gregory murmured. “Just sit there for now.”

John came back on the line, then, and commenced talking Gregory through the annoying process of making Mycroft move. All Mycroft wanted to do was to enjoy the sensation of Gregory’s skin against his own, but John (and by extension Gregory) kept insisting he do things like sit up and drink some water and count backwards from ten and attempt to move his fingers and toes individually and then all at once.

“Fever’s coming down, I think,” Gregory said into the phone, “but if he reacts like Sherlock did it may be a few hours before he’s feeling back to normal.” He was silent for a minute, listening, then . . . “I’ll do that. Thanks. Call me if anything turns up.”

Gregory had such a nice voice. He could say _things_ in that voice. Mycroft wasn’t quite up to any sort of actual sexual activity at the moment, but it occurred to him it would be quite nice indeed to have Gregory say _things_ and then maybe later, when Mycroft was feeling less muddled, they could do those things together. “Tell me to come to bed, Gregory,” Mycroft said. “I want your voice to say things. And touch me. You, not your voice. You have a very nice voice.”

Gregory chuckled softly. “This part’s new, at least. Sherlock just ended up petting my jacket and muttering about bees for an hour.” He prodded Mycroft into standing up - with significant help - and half-walked, half-dragged him to the bedroom. “What’s it like? The high? I’ve always wondered.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and tried to focus on an answer. “Empty,” he finally said. “Bit vague and everything’s fuzzy around the edges, but the world is _quiet_ and it’s nice. I’m not worrying anymore. I like you here.”

“Not really what I was expecting when I signed up for this,” Gregory said with a wry twist of his mouth, “but it’s interesting to say the least. Come here - get the rest of the way on the bed.”

Mycroft looked down and was surprised to find he was no longer standing, but was listing at a sharp angle over the footboard. Propping himself up with both hands but doing an inadequate job, apparently. Gregory had abandoned his post as human crutch and was pulling back the covers to leave just a simple sheet on the bed. Mycroft took a minute to assess the situation, mentally strategized to the best of his current ability, then carefully walked around the corner of the bed so he could collapse face-first onto the mattress without an uncomfortable footboard bisecting his abdomen. “Lie with me?”

Gregory shook his head. “Anthea’s reviewing security footage and I promised John I’d tell him and Sherlock what little I could as soon as you were set. No nausea yet?”

Mycroft shook his head no.

“Going to get a bowl for you for later, then,” Gregory said. “You’ll probably need it. Just lie there and try to focus on doing that creepily brilliant analysis thing you do. You’re working with a bit of a handicap, I know, but-”

“I love you,” Mycroft blurted out. “I thought you might react poorly if I told you.”

Gregory froze, then slowly licked his lips and blinked twice. “Mycroft-”

It was important to get this out, though. Urgent. Mycroft held up a hand - still not great fine motor control, but it got the point across - and Gregory stopped. “Don’t say it’s the drugs, because it’s not. I have to tell you _now_ because I’ll go back to being worried after. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time and I want you down here. You’re too far away.”

“You’re still high,” Gregory said gently.

“Do I ever say anything I don’t mean?”

Gregory tilted his head, assessing, but he still looked skeptical.

It was enough to kick Mycroft into actually trying to _think._ “You want analysis. Fine.” Thinking made his headache hurt, dulled the lovely floaty feeling, but Gregory needed to believe Mycroft was serious. “If this is the same cocktail Sherlock used - which I agree it probably is because this is the exact state my brother yearns for on danger nights - it’s safe to assume I’m being set up to have a familial substance abuse issue. I suspect there’s probably something at my residence now, paraphernalia and more of the same drug mixture. Sherlock’s issues are a long-standing but relatively closed secret; we can assume an ‘anonymous’ source will either make them public soon or threaten to expose both of us as addicts. No one on my security team has the resources to make this a successful blackmail attempt, therefore someone else is pulling the strings. A colleague, perhaps, or a wealthy individual with a specific political aim. Money is unlikely to be the end goal; if it were just money this person could have blackmailed Sherlock long before now.” Mycroft levered himself - with some effort - up to his elbows so he wasn’t just flopped on the bed. “There. Does that prove I’m lucid? Lower inhibitions, yes, but nothing I wouldn’t have felt otherwise. Now get on the bed.”

It took several seconds for Gregory to remember to close his jaw. “Well fuck me,” he breathed. “You can do all that while high off your arse. Just . . . bloody buggering fuck. Damn.”

A tendril of hope awoke in Mycroft’s chest. “You found that seductive?” He phrased it as a question, but the new heat in Gregory’s eyes was obvious. “Muscle control isn’t up to fucking yet, but I’m willing to try.”

“Mycroft, you - fuck.” Gregory sighed and shook his head. “We’ll talk about this later, okay?”

Mycroft’s instinctive response was to argue, to drag Gregory down to the mattress, but he suddenly became aware of the fact that nausea was now an issue. Perhaps a bowl near the bed would be a good idea after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: drug use (consistent with elsewhere in the series)
> 
> Also, let's just pretend there's some way to combine pharmaceuticals to come up with this effect, okay? Sherlock's a genius; he'd figure it out :-P


	18. Chapter 18

Time was still warped and unreliable for a good while longer, but Mycroft spent it alternating between dozing with his nose squashed into Gregory’s pillow and dry heaving into a bucket. If he concentrated he could make out snatches of Gregory on his mobile in the sitting room, strategizing. For the most part Mycroft didn’t bother trying to focus.

 _He cares._ That was the one deduction that kept poking through. The appeal of this chemically-induced abeyance was obvious; suddenly Sherlock’s insistence on creating his own concoctions made a lot more sense. Without the mental noise of the rest of the world, all that was left was the _now_ . . . and “now” was much easier to bear, especially while safe in the bedroom and with Gregory standing guard. Metaphorically speaking. Although, Mycroft realized, literal was accurate too.

Because Gregory did come in to check on Mycroft frequently. Eventually he even relented and let Mycroft wriggle halfway into his lap, combing his fingers through Mycroft’s hair and looking down at him with a melancholy expression while Mycroft sighed and breathed in the scent of Gregory’s clothes.

“Right on all counts, so far,” Gregory said softly. Regulating his volume in deference to Mycroft’s aching head, no doubt. “Although I’m not surprised you can put all that together even while incoherent - genius seems like a good quality in a behind-the-scenes secret government puppetmaster. Which I’m still convinced is essentially your job title. You okay down there?”

The proximity was more than _okay._ Mycroft nodded, the motion rubbing his forehead against Gregory’s stomach through the cotton of his faded t-shirt. “Don’t stop.”

“Imperious berk.” Gregory’s voice held a hint of teasing, but he kept up the gentle pressure on Mycroft’s scalp with his fingertips. “As you guessed, Anthea did find more drugs at your house. Hidden in a little hollowed-out book, apparently - Sherlock said it he used to use it for his emergency stash before you confiscated it. Also said I’d swept his Montague Street flat _twice_ and missed it both times so he was a bit of an arse about being so clever until John did that little ‘not good’ throat clear and he toned down. Anthea is arranging some sort of makeshift lab for him to poke at it all and see what he can come up with.”

“Leeward Ferry,” Mycroft mumbled. “Closest one to clear out on short notice.”

“No idea; I didn’t ask.” Gregory angled his elbow differently, so he was rubbing Mycroft’s temples instead of just combing through his hair. The sensation sent sparks up behind Mycroft’s eyelids and a full-body shiver down his spine. “The registration on the car that lured you outside came back to a Malley & McGonagall Enterprises,” Gregory added. “Not sure what that’s supposed to mean - Sherlock wasn’t either - but at least it gives them somewhere to start.”

“Mmmm.” The name didn’t ring a bell, but it wasn’t exactly taking priority in Mycroft’s limited range of thoughts at the moment. Although . . . “‘Them?’ Not ‘us?’”

Gregory snorted. “You’re a bit indisposed, Mycroft.”

“I’ve been through worse.” Mycroft tried for a nonchalant wave and ended up with a hand on Gregory’s knee.

“You still also have a traitor among your security staff.”

 _Ah._ That was a problem. A large one, probably. The more interesting issue at hand, though, was that Gregory had very nice knees. Mycroft squeezed the one he was holding. The knee would be connected with a very nice thigh, which was currently doubling as a pillow. And connected to _that_ should have been a hard shape mashed somewhere in the vicinity of Mycroft’s right ear. It wasn’t, though, and that problem seemed equally pressing. Or not, so to speak. Mycroft slid his hand higher up Gregory’s leg. He’d intended to coax Gregory’s erection into play, but Gregory slid away and nudged at him to lift his hips instead. He got the covers out from under Mycroft’s lower body with a minimum of unnecessary movement, then flipped them both over so he could pull up the sheet and duvet.

“Sleep, okay?” Gregory spooned up behind Mycroft and kissed him gently behind the ear. “Time for all that - and the strategizing - later.”

 _Later_ didn’t sound anywhere near as nice as _now, please._ Gregory’s arm was a pleasant weight over Mycroft’s ribcage, though, and initiating sexual activity would probably take more physical effort than Mycroft could currently coordinate. At least the nausea seemed to have passed.

Mycroft feigned sleep.

***

They lay in silence long enough for the rectangle of light from the window to work its way across a fair portion of the far wall. It was hard to assess Gregory’s state of alertness, given only one limb to work with and the fact that he couldn’t very well take the man’s pulse, but when Gregory groaned and sat up again it wasn’t entirely a surprise.

“Didn’t really think you’d listen,” Gregory said, voice muffled from where he was rubbing his hand over his face. _Scrubbing over that delicious hint of gray stubble he’s been accumulating since the previous morning,_ the more primitive part of Mycroft’s brain pointed out. “Assumed you’d sleep about as much as Sherlock.”

“Sherlock and I don’t actually share that many . . .” _Damn._ Mycroft shut his mouth with a click. “Never mind.” The protest over fraternal comparisons was reflexive but somewhat embarrassing. “I am tired,” he admitted, “but I’m feeling a bit more myself. And I’m used to pushing through it. My apologies for sidetracking you from your work.” He rolled over onto his back, the better to actually see Gregory’s expression. The lack of Gregory’s warm body pressed against his own was disappointing but also necessary. “We can discuss strategy in the sitting room in separate chairs if you’d prefer more physical distance.”

Gregory cocked his head to one side, an intense look on his face. “You actually are feeling better,” he finally declared. “I can tell because you’re using big words again and you’re pulling that autocratic bullshit tone.”

There really was no way to respond to being called autocratic (and “bullshit”) without sounding even more autocratic in response. It left Mycroft feeling off-balance, both literally and figuratively. “I . . . am,” he said. “Thank you for helping me through it.” Verbal thanks was completely inadequate, honestly, but there wasn’t much more he could do for Gregory at the moment. He scrambled up to a sitting position, the bedclothes still wrapped around his legs. “After this is over,” he added quietly, “please let me know if I can repay you in some other way.”

“Professionally, you mean?” Gregory regarded him with a totally blank expression. “Pull some strings, smooth my way on occasion?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Stilted phone calls to express concern for Sherlock’s welfare?”

Mycroft blinked. “I . . .”

“Face it,” Gregory said flatly. “That ‘long-distance awkward acquaintances’ stage of our relationship is over. I wouldn’t be comfortable with it anymore and neither would you.”

They both already knew it was true, but Mycroft gave a tight nod anyway. “Apologies again, then. I’m sure I can manage from here if you’d rather get back to London. If you wouldn’t mind waiting until I can arrange safe transportation-”

“Mycroft.” Gregory interrupted him mid-sentence by cupping Mycroft’s chin in a strangely gentle grip. “You don’t want me to go, though, right?”

A diplomatic evasion sprang to mind, but . . . Mycroft slowly shook his head no.

“And if I were to stay for longer?” Gregory’s tone was light, but his eyes never left Mycroft’s. “I’ve had a while to think, you know, over the last couple of weeks. I eventually got past ‘angry’ but I wasn’t sure where I ended up. I mean, I thought I knew, but seeing you lying there on the driveway . . .” He pressed his lips tightly together. “Just - _fuck._ I can’t _not_ care about you. I tried, but I can’t.”

“I’m . . . sorry?”

Gregory laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You’re not, though,” he said. “That’s the thing. You lied to me and you let me think we had Sherlock and Charlie in common, that whole losing-a-brother experience, but you’re not sorry. You did it because you felt you had to, and you’d do it again if it meant my life, wouldn’t you?”

Mycroft opened his mouth and then closed it again. It was true, but that didn’t mean “yes” was the correct answer.

“Yeah, thought so.” He shook his head and sighed. “Bloody berk. What the hell am I going to do with you?”

Hope immediately sprang up in Mycroft’s mind, but he quickly tamped it down. “I would imagine . . .” _Imagine what?_ “Gregory, I . . .”

“Right, that’s it.” Gregory lurched up to his knees and shuffled forward, straddling Mycroft’s lap through the sheets. “I’m going to kiss you now and you’re going to let me. How does that sound?”

Mycroft nodded dumbly.

“Good.”

The kiss wasn’t gentle and it wasn’t soothing, but Mycroft needed it more than breathing. Gregory claimed him thoroughly, through growls and moans and the occasional nip to the edge of Mycroft’s jawline. All Mycroft could do was to open his mouth to the onslaught and surrender. If he hadn’t already had his palms firmly planted on the mattress behind his hips, propping himself up, he almost certainly would have fallen flat on his back because his brain definitely wasn’t contributing anything useful to maintaining his equilibrium.

As it turned out, kissing and near-hyperventilating weren’t terribly compatible. Gregory soon pulled away, a concerned wrinkle between his brows. “Mycroft? You’re scaring me. You okay?”

Mycroft nodded again, then shook his head almost immediately afterward. He _was_ light-headed, breathing too fast, but it wasn’t because of the mystery drug cocktail. _Best confront it, then._ “You’re staying?” he asked. Years of practice hiding his reactions had his voice steadier than he would have expected, but his heart was still racing. “I would have thought, now that the ruse worked-”

“Mycroft, I’m only going to say this once.” Gregory tightened his arm around Mycroft’s waist. “Shut up.” The soft _whoosh_ of his amused huff made the back of Mycroft’s neck prickle. “You’re making it harder for a bloke to admit when he was wrong, all right? Yes, I’m staying until you’re recovered. I promise I’ll catch you up on everything Sherlock has about the case - sorry, the whatever-we’re-calling-this - but right now I just want to hold you. This could have so easily gone another way, and I-” He broke off abruptly. “Right. We can save that whole topic for after you’ve had some more rest.”

No, they couldn’t. There was literally _no way_ to table the current discussion for later without Mycroft sustaining permanent psychological damage from keeping that tiny piece of hope alive. Gregory’s embrace - what felt shockingly like an embrace, anyway - was probably the only thing keeping him tethered to reality as it was. The chemical high had long since dissipated, so the emotional vertigo Mycroft was experiencing had to be the result of Gregory’s proximity. There was no way to _say_ that, though. Not without endangering himself further.

“Shit. Don’t - Mycroft, don’t cry. Come here.”

Somehow, mostly through Gregory’s efforts, they ended up twisted onto their sides so Mycroft could bury his face in the collar of Gregory’s soft t-shirt. If the shirt happened to acquire some new wet blotches, Gregory didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t seem to mind the way Mycroft’s shoulders were trembling, either, despite Mycroft’s best attempt to keep himself still. Gregory’s soothing hand rubbing up and down his back helped.

Mycroft would have liked to say he couldn’t remember the last time he cried, but it would have been a lie. The problem with an eidetic memory is never being able to forget times like Sherlock’s twenty-first birthday: 6:57 PM when he’d initially gotten the call; almost 10:30 when the doctors finally gave confirmation that Sherlock would live and hadn’t suffered permanent brain damage from the overdose. There in the hospital waiting room, crammed between a woman visiting her terminally alcoholic husband and a young father panicking over his infant son’s breathing issues, Mycroft had undergone a near-complete collapse. He hadn’t been nearly as prominent in his profession, then; no one had remarked on it at the office the next day. Sherlock ran away from that first treatment facility a week later.

There had been other close calls, other scares, but by then Mycroft’s iron control was more established. Sherlock may have been his weak point, but that didn’t mean Mycroft had to make it easy for his political enemies to get to him. The “Ice Man” monicker had been hard-earned. And now Gregory had cracked that frozen shell clean in two and Mycroft was learning just how little of himself was left inside.

“I care about you too,” Mycroft admitted, barely above a whisper. “And it scares the hell out of me.”

“Caring is not an advantage?” Gregory squeezed the back of Mycroft’s neck and Mycroft couldn’t help but arch back into the gentle pressure. “Sherlock has mentioned the sentiment to me on more than one occasion. And I know you consider yourself responsible for that.”

“It’s dangerous.” Political threats, those Mycroft could handle, but emotional ones . . .

“The thing is, though,” Gregory murmured, “we don’t get to choose who we love.”

Mycroft pulled back from Gregory’s neck and gaped up at him.

“And I’ve discovered . . .” Gregory met Mycroft’s pole-axed expression with a little contented smile of his own. “Turns out, falling in love with you is one of the easier things I’ve ever done.”

 _He loves me._ He’d said it just like that, no subterfuge, no hedging. No strings attached. And no regret in his tone. _Gregory Lestrade said he loves me._

Words were totally inadequate, then, so Mycroft didn’t bother trying to use them. He surged forward instead, capturing Gregory’s mouth in a crooked but sincere kiss. Gregory chuckled, but allowed Mycroft to roll the two of them over so Mycroft was straddling him and could demonstrate with his enthusiasm and his body just how much, exactly, Gregory’s feelings were reciprocated.

“I love you too,” Mycroft groaned, nuzzling a line down Gregory’s neck and pressing a neat row of kisses along the length of his sternum through the thin cotton of the man’s shirt. “I know I’m going to be terrible at it, but I want to try. To be what you need.”

“Be you.” Gregory curled his upper half so he could press a kiss to the thinning spot on the top of Mycroft’s head. “I trust you to find a way out of this mess, and then we can take our time to do this right. I’ve waited too damn long to let little things like your brother’s return from the grave or a character assassination attempt or the fact that our cottage is probably being watched by some unknown enemy dissuade me anymore.”

Mycroft shot a pointed look at the window. The gauzy curtains let sunlight filter in, but would block any attempt to spy on them directly even if someone were so inclined. “They’re not watching us _that_ closely.”

“That’s good.” Gregory propped himself up on his elbows. “Because I’d hate to give them too much of a show.”

Mycroft let his gaze drift back down, to where Gregory’s interest was very clearly tenting the front of his pajama trousers. He licked his lips - perhaps a bit more theatrically than necessary - and commenced a more practical demonstration of his devotion.


	19. Chapter 19

It was a full twenty-four hours later when John finally declared Mycroft fit to travel. Gregory threw their few personal belongings into the two small suitcases and left them just inside the front door, then he ushered Mycroft outside and several hundred yards down the road to a nondescript waiting car. No driver.

“What, you’re surprised?” Gregory asked as he settled in behind the wheel. “We’re doing this with minimal help, you know - and unlike your brother, I actually know how to drive.”

“Sherlock is a very safe driver when it suits him.”

Gregory arched an eyebrow. “Could have fooled me.” He put the car in gear and headed toward the nearby town. “And in case you were about to start panicking, our phones are in with our luggage back at the cottage so we won’t be tracked. Sherlock has a friend who will be collecting them later tonight. I suggested just taking the batteries out, but Anthea and John both felt we were better off giving a false signal than having both our phones suddenly disappear off the map.”

“Speaking of map…”

“You noticed.” Gregory snorted. “Yes, no phone means I have no map, which means your brother spent forty-five bloody minutes drilling our route into my head. Might as well nap while you can; I’ll probably get lost sometime in the next two hours. That’s the soonest Anthea can get back to this side of the country to pick us up. I’ll let you know if I need help - you’ve got the complete Google street view of the entire UK in that eidetic memory of yours, right?”

***

He hadn’t intended to doze, but Mycroft woke up with a jolt as the sound of a helicopter passed overhead. They were on a skinny gravel road between a forest and a field, in what a casual glance at the geology and vegetation suggested was northwest Devon. Gregory pulled to the shoulder, turned off the car, and watched with obvious fascination as Anthea landed the helicopter neatly in the center of the disused field. She gestured them over with a wave and a polite nod.

The roar of the rotors was too loud to allow anything other than shouting, so Mycroft followed Gregory aboard without comment. His request that Anthea give a status update was rebuffed with an eloquent _look_ , one she had perfected ages ago, leaving Mycroft to spend the flight frowning at nothing in particular. The trip to the island felt a lot longer than it had coming the other direction.

Sherlock, being Sherlock, was naturally the first one to break the awkward silence once they landed. He charged toward the helicopter with his usual exuberance, slowed only slightly by John puffing along at his heels. “They made a mistake!” he crowed.

“For God’s sake,” John grumbled from behind him. The actual words were lost in the ambient noise of Anthea powering the helicopter down, but Mycroft’s lip-reading skills were excellent. Despite his pounding headache. “Let them get inside first, yeah?”

The two of them looked, if not completely back to their normal relationship, then definitely headed in that direction. John didn’t look more exasperated with Sherlock than usual, at least. Mycroft snuck a glance at Gregory and felt a tremulous burst of hope in his chest. If John could forgive Sherlock...

“Inside,” Anthea declared once everything was safely checked, cross-checked, and stowed. “Clarkson should be back by now.”

“He is,” John confirmed.

The group gathered in the strategy room once they got settled was composed of the same people, plus Clarkson, but it had a decidedly more buoyant atmosphere to it. Sherlock, in particular, was practically vibrating.

“Out with it then,” Mycroft demanded. “What’s this mistake ‘they’ made?”

Sherlock’s gaze shifted to John, just for a moment, then he sat up straighter and grinned smugly. “The mixture they planted in your house,” he announced. “And dosed you with. You were correct that it was intended to look similar to my ‘birthday list,’ as you called it, but when _I_ made my own cocktails I always used pharmaceutical-grade ingredients. Whoever is trying to discredit you obviously didn’t have the same connections - the copycat substance used the correct drugs in the correct proportions, but with clearly inferior street versions.”

Gregory frowned. “How the hell would they know what you used to take?”

“Oh, I posted the recipes on my blog.” John gave him a dark look, and Sherlock shrugged. “Not the Science of Deduction, obviously. My old blog. I deleted it a long time ago but things on the internet never completely go away. As I’m sure you noticed from that dating site where you--”

“Ahem.” John pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like _“Jesus fucking Christ.”_

“The point is,” Sherlock continued, “this attempt to replicate my successes was doomed to fail because the final product was contaminated with several other, cheaper substances - namely benzocaine, lidocaine, and chloroquine, in varying quantities. The cocaine they used was only around forty-seven percent pure, the ecstasy seventy percent, and the heroin somewhere just north of thirty-five, assuming they followed my ratios exactly. Which is good, because if they had done it correctly it probably would have killed you.”

Gregory’s breath punched out in a short burst. “Was this an assassination attempt, then?” he asked in a low voice.

Sherlock shook his head. “More likely it’s a cook who was given a formula but not context, which suggests that whoever’s behind this is no more than tangentially related to the drug trade. The cook would have known this dose - assuming he told them what amount to use - would incapacitate but not kill someone with no history with narcotics.” He looked down at his lap, avoiding eye contact with John. “It would likely have made the cravings harder to resist, if it were me, but I would have probably been able to fake my way through it. Not a terribly strong effect on an addict.”

John’s shoulder moved in a way that suggested he was squeezing Sherlock’s leg under the table. Mycroft pointedly shifted his gaze elsewhere and pretended he didn’t see the silent look his brother and John were giving each other. Something along the order of _I trust you_ on John’s part and _I love you_ on Sherlock’s.

“On the other front,” Anthea announced, “does Malley & McGonagall Enterprises ring a bell for you, Mr. Holmes? Clarkson looked into it - there’s not much to go on, but it appears to be a import/export business based in New York City. American-owned but with British investors. The car that the perpetrator or perpetrators used was owned by the company, not just rented or leased, so presumably they have enough of a presence on British soil to justify a right-hand drive vehicle.”

The name didn’t ring any bells, just like it hadn’t when Gregory had first mentioned it, but Mycroft flipped through his mental Rolodex anyway. “Do you know the names of the British investors?”

Clarkson cleared his throat. “Not a complete list, sir, but I was able to track down two. Lord Henry Dalton heads the board of directors, and his son Rodney has a financial stake as well. I believe there is at least one more.”

_That_ was more enlightening. “I need to verify a few things first,” Mycroft said, “but I believe Rodney Dalton may very well be worth pursuing. He’s in his fifties, is he not?”

“Fifty-four, sir. Lord Dalton the elder is eighty-one.”

“And, last I saw him, starting the slide into Alzheimer’s.” Mycroft reflexively reached for his phone, which he only realized when his fingers encountered empty air. Inconvenient. “I’ve never worked with Henry Dalton directly but we’ve met a few times. His sense of patriotism cemented during WWII and hasn’t changed since. Involved with several philanthropic interests, including some which his son perhaps would rather cut out of his inheritance, perhaps?”

“Plausible,” said Anthea. “Clarkson and I will follow up on that. Forrester, you and Sherlock see what else you can find about the leak in Mr. Holmes’s staff - someone was passing on information, definitely, and that person needs to be made an example of. John, would you be so kind as to perform a basic security assessment of this building and the rest of the island? I don’t anticipate visitors, but it would be good to be prepared.”

John nodded solemnly. “I can do that.”

“Martha and Eugenia,” Gregory cut in, “your culinary skills are unparalleled. Would you mind terribly helping with that aspect of our stay here?” He looked across the table at Mycroft and quirked a wry smile. “I’m the expert in withdrawal symptoms, unfortunately, and Mycroft isn’t out of the woods yet. We’ve got some fun times ahead.”


End file.
